Day 65
It would help if I could see straight, promise to write a coherent piece in the morning, blame heartache or booze, whichever, it's hard to keep track.
All I know is that there were a lot of people dancing, mulitple bottles of white and an overwhelming feeling of guilt at having not done a damn thing with my day besides put on goth-ish makeup compliment a drag queen and feel sorry for myself. All in all a typical day. Details tomorrow my possums when I wake up and realize that I am not a fairy princess who has beautiful prince on a white horse riding up to her. Shit, maybe it'd be best to not wake up tomorrow, seeing as there wouldn't be any prince riding up just a massive headache and a hankering for eggs and cheese.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Creepy Invaders, Hawaiian Ass, Food Fight!, Other People's Friends, Motherly Love?, Smitten-ness Sucks
Day 64
The raccoons have taken a new stance. They are multiplying AND when they see a human approaching they turn toward them and get down on their haunches trying to look tough (and they do look tough). If it weren't for the lady from London walking next to me I would've turned around and ran screaming. Funny how brave a stranger can make you. I still think we should set traps and buy shotguns, but it could just be my cultural background.
Before my favorite fellow American got into a sticky racial argument and before he mooned me we were enjoying a fine supper. I was telling him that I didn't want to see the Indian guy hobble around (he tore two ligaments in his knee playing soccer, a great reason to NEVER play soccer, ever). My big gay Hawaiian friend, my favorite American, let's call him Lester, started to laugh and tell me how inappropriate that my not wanting to see this other guy limp around was. Did I mention he almost got his ass kicked ten minutes later for racial remarks?
Anyway, we saw our favorite Norwegian coming in for supper, he sat at a table next to us. We took this opportunity to throw cauliflower and carrots at him. If we didn't live with such repressed nerds it could've led to mayhem, but instead it led to the Norwegian looking at me drying my eyes from the tears of laughter. He accused me of being an accomplice to the incident I told him that it wasn't true that I'd never do that sort of thing, that I was just sitting there minding my own business crying. But, somehow, he make me feel guilty enough to apologize to him at least ten times. Damnit, how could I let him ruin a food fight like that? I am getting weak.
Tonight I went upstairs to raid the kitchen cupboard for yerba mate. I'm not usually a tea drinker but his shit is amazing. An old woman I didn't know happened to be toasting something in the medieval toaster oven at the time and reacted to my frantic cupboard opening and slamming search. "Can I help you?" she asked. I told her I was looking for the mate. She opened a door and there it was. She asked me what it was. I launched into this, "Well, it's from South America and they drink it there like we drink coffee, it's really good you should try it sometime. But, I will warn you it's got a natural caffeine to it that can be a powerful stimulant." She looked at me funny. "You know like say if you have a story due on a Monday and you don't have shit done and you need to stay up all night and get super focused." "Like you?" she asked. "I don't know what you're talking about," I mumbled with a huge sachet of stolen tea in my hand. "Have a good night," I said as I creeped to the door thinking, "Who is she? She knows too much."
I will never quit facebook. I quit smoking and sexin' (well, not on purpose) and I will eventually quit drinkin' (on my deathbed) but never will I not log on. You'd think I would be sick of it by now, my ADD would kick in and I'd be bored and unable to focus. But, as today proves, life with facebook gets better and better. Today I've discovered the joy of posting comments on friend's walls that are actually directed at my friend's friends that I do not even know. It all started with a friend of a friend commenting on a post I'd made and ended with me inviting this friend of my friend to come and visit and have beers with me. It's not dangerous if they are a friend of a friend, right? Ahh, who cares I need to take more risks.
When your own mother hangs up on you and says, "You need to put pen to page," is it a heartfelt motivation for you to actually work on your writing skills or an excuse for her to get you off the phone so she can watch CSI?
God, I hate when I am smitten, it's like all you can think about are cheesy scenes from movies that will never happen in real life. The cinema is only false hope. It's close enough to real life to be believable but far enough from it to make it depressing (that shit will never happen). A friend of mine is accusing me of being in love with another friend (which I am, but don't tell her) and now, I have entered into a bet of sorts where I will have to risk (friendship) to kiss someone to hold up my end of the bargain. The bet is she kisses someone she likes and I kiss this friend of mine. Maybe, I should've told my co-conspirator that I never win bets mostly because my life really isn't like a movie no matter how much I pretend it is. Although, Halloween is coming up, maybe I could kiss my friend in disguise and if it went horribly (which it might, again we aren't in the movies) he would never know...right?
Well, I better get busy, it takes a ton of white wine to counteract the stimulants of the mate...
-Canadian Castaway
The raccoons have taken a new stance. They are multiplying AND when they see a human approaching they turn toward them and get down on their haunches trying to look tough (and they do look tough). If it weren't for the lady from London walking next to me I would've turned around and ran screaming. Funny how brave a stranger can make you. I still think we should set traps and buy shotguns, but it could just be my cultural background.
Before my favorite fellow American got into a sticky racial argument and before he mooned me we were enjoying a fine supper. I was telling him that I didn't want to see the Indian guy hobble around (he tore two ligaments in his knee playing soccer, a great reason to NEVER play soccer, ever). My big gay Hawaiian friend, my favorite American, let's call him Lester, started to laugh and tell me how inappropriate that my not wanting to see this other guy limp around was. Did I mention he almost got his ass kicked ten minutes later for racial remarks?
Anyway, we saw our favorite Norwegian coming in for supper, he sat at a table next to us. We took this opportunity to throw cauliflower and carrots at him. If we didn't live with such repressed nerds it could've led to mayhem, but instead it led to the Norwegian looking at me drying my eyes from the tears of laughter. He accused me of being an accomplice to the incident I told him that it wasn't true that I'd never do that sort of thing, that I was just sitting there minding my own business crying. But, somehow, he make me feel guilty enough to apologize to him at least ten times. Damnit, how could I let him ruin a food fight like that? I am getting weak.
Tonight I went upstairs to raid the kitchen cupboard for yerba mate. I'm not usually a tea drinker but his shit is amazing. An old woman I didn't know happened to be toasting something in the medieval toaster oven at the time and reacted to my frantic cupboard opening and slamming search. "Can I help you?" she asked. I told her I was looking for the mate. She opened a door and there it was. She asked me what it was. I launched into this, "Well, it's from South America and they drink it there like we drink coffee, it's really good you should try it sometime. But, I will warn you it's got a natural caffeine to it that can be a powerful stimulant." She looked at me funny. "You know like say if you have a story due on a Monday and you don't have shit done and you need to stay up all night and get super focused." "Like you?" she asked. "I don't know what you're talking about," I mumbled with a huge sachet of stolen tea in my hand. "Have a good night," I said as I creeped to the door thinking, "Who is she? She knows too much."
I will never quit facebook. I quit smoking and sexin' (well, not on purpose) and I will eventually quit drinkin' (on my deathbed) but never will I not log on. You'd think I would be sick of it by now, my ADD would kick in and I'd be bored and unable to focus. But, as today proves, life with facebook gets better and better. Today I've discovered the joy of posting comments on friend's walls that are actually directed at my friend's friends that I do not even know. It all started with a friend of a friend commenting on a post I'd made and ended with me inviting this friend of my friend to come and visit and have beers with me. It's not dangerous if they are a friend of a friend, right? Ahh, who cares I need to take more risks.
When your own mother hangs up on you and says, "You need to put pen to page," is it a heartfelt motivation for you to actually work on your writing skills or an excuse for her to get you off the phone so she can watch CSI?
God, I hate when I am smitten, it's like all you can think about are cheesy scenes from movies that will never happen in real life. The cinema is only false hope. It's close enough to real life to be believable but far enough from it to make it depressing (that shit will never happen). A friend of mine is accusing me of being in love with another friend (which I am, but don't tell her) and now, I have entered into a bet of sorts where I will have to risk (friendship) to kiss someone to hold up my end of the bargain. The bet is she kisses someone she likes and I kiss this friend of mine. Maybe, I should've told my co-conspirator that I never win bets mostly because my life really isn't like a movie no matter how much I pretend it is. Although, Halloween is coming up, maybe I could kiss my friend in disguise and if it went horribly (which it might, again we aren't in the movies) he would never know...right?
Well, I better get busy, it takes a ton of white wine to counteract the stimulants of the mate...
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Yesterday, Part of Today, and I Love You, Warren
Day 63
Alright, alright I didn't post yesterday (did anyone notice). It's super hard to post when you are so drunk you throw your keys in the toilet. A lot of things happened yesterday here's a few of them before we move on to the boring ass shit that went down today:
1. I ate Mr. Noodles and spent most of my day thinking about how wonderful Mr. Noodles is and how cheap Mr. Noodles is and how I was going to save money AND lose weight by eating only Mr. Noodles. Then, I got on the bus and shared my plans (I should never talk to anyone). The kids in my program all laughed at me and one even said, "My friends used to eat Mr. Noodles like all the time and she got cancer."
2. I then shared my quit smoking tactic of having cigarettes around to make it too easy to go back to smoking and the Mr. Noodles wrecking bastards scolded me and disagreed with me. I should've told them that I had a friend who quit smoking by getting rid of all things cigarette and they got cancer anyhow, but, I am not a liar (and I hate myself for it).
3. I went to postcard story night. Basically, all of the writing kids get together and are given one phrase chosen at random from a book and have 5 minutes to write a story about it, pretty much an excuse to drink beer. That's when my non-soberness began. A pitcher in I wrote the following stories:
"All the school girls have passed me by I mean I'll buy the cookies I'll give them a tip. I support the Girl Scouts of America. One minor sexual transgression doesn't mean I'll reoffend, right? And, since when is wearing mirrors on your shoes a crime? If they did that on the runways of Europe I wouldn't have gotten 3-5. I'd be praised as a fashion pioneer. "Hey girl scout, come on over here. I'll buy some of your delicious cookies."
And,
"Beauty does not rest but ugly does. In fact if you rest enough you just may become the ugliest person alive. This is the first time I've been awake in 47 days, 3 hours, and 21 minutes. I haven't gotten all that much uglier, but I am trying. One day I will be the ugliest I"ll show that Barry Manilow that it'll be me one day. I'll get a crown and a sash and be able to throw candy at the brats watching the parade. Gotta rest."
4. After the postcards and a few pitchers we headed to one of the writer's houses. She lives in a well, a hippie art commune sort of place. I am positive it is freaky enough during the daylight hours sober but under darkness and the influence it was downright surreal. The walls were crumbling, people were hula-hooping and I ended up next to a guy playing Neutral Milk Hotel songs on a guitar and singing along. Not to mention the weird lighted garden, the Robert Benigni-ish guy running around and beat boxing, the huge orange cat that looked like it would burst into a Shakespearean soliloquy at any moment, and the white-haired vaguely foreign child molester ringleader pushing petitions to keep the dump from being taken by the city. I wouldn't have believed any of this but some jackass put up a video of it on youtube (isn't that always the case).
5. When I finally made it home my keys flew into my toilet and I fell asleep awaking this morning to find stuff strewn all over my apartment and me (somewhat miraculously) clad in pajamas. Damn, I thought, I didn't bring anyone home.
Which brings me to today. I went to breakfast (again, miraculously). Everyone asked me if I was sick, shifting over in their chairs at my presence. I told them that I was just hungover to ease their fears of catching diseases or killer flu viruses. Telling them the truth was a huge mistake as I had to hear 10 different people say the exact same, "Whoa, you got drunk on a Tuesday?" What they meant to say was, "Whoa you got drunk on a Tuesday, you must have a huge drinking problem and hate yourself." What their unconscious meant to say was, "Whoa you got drunk on a Tuesday, I spent my Tuesday night alone in my room grading papers that will be forgotten about wishing I had a friend that isn't just an avatar."
I choked down my eggs and three glasses of water chased by three glasses of milk. I don't know what it is about milk lately...and went back to bed and back to sleep after an hour of imagining myself initiate a kiss on my crush of the moment. My life would be so much more exciting if I was a pervert.
The day passed by and I fed two of my friends for dinner at the risk of them realizing how much of a loser I am by interacting with my rezmates. They realized it. But, I have a feeling they already know I'm a loser and are befriending me out of a twisted charity like on Clueless.
After supper my bodyguard and I (whom I just found out only hugged me the other night because he was being filmed, goddamn it) headed off to see some improv. The show was pretty good, except the clapping. Before each scene the audience and cast clapped out a rhythm (I hate clapping). Halfway through the first part of the show a guy walked in and I saw him go down the aisle. He was absolutely gorgeous in an adorable way. My friend called out to him, "Warren," in a loud whisper. He didn't hear. I whispered to her that I was in love with her friend. She told me he liked women and doesn't have a girlfriend and that he is ultra Christian, sort of. Jesus, I thought, but I said, "Does that mean no sex?"
After the show my friend left her umbrella and ran down to talk to Warren who looked stunning in his Kermit-green sweater. I nabbed the umbrella and the opportunity to meet him. (ultra Christians are pretty progressive these days, right?) At times like this I always pretend my life is a movie. I mean, I was in love with him at first sight. And, if you believe in something hard enough it will become true, except the toothfairy. So, I introduced myself to him in a really loud voice and immediately followed with, "I love you." He smiled the smile you smile when you want the tick-infested dog to back away. I followed with, "I mean, I love your sweater."
Later, Warren came up to me and my friends and I invited him to come to our postcard nights, because he said, "Well, maybe I'll see you guys around sometime like maybe for a drink." Promptly thereafter we started talking about Creative Writing and classes and he said the word, "Poetry" and like a retard-reflex (I know that's not proper but it sure does roll of the old naughty tongue nicely) I said, "I hate poetry." I think I've ruined my chances with my one true love forever. How can I be such a fool? But, if I keep believing that it'll work out then...I hope he's another toothfairy case.
-Canadian Castaway
Alright, alright I didn't post yesterday (did anyone notice). It's super hard to post when you are so drunk you throw your keys in the toilet. A lot of things happened yesterday here's a few of them before we move on to the boring ass shit that went down today:
1. I ate Mr. Noodles and spent most of my day thinking about how wonderful Mr. Noodles is and how cheap Mr. Noodles is and how I was going to save money AND lose weight by eating only Mr. Noodles. Then, I got on the bus and shared my plans (I should never talk to anyone). The kids in my program all laughed at me and one even said, "My friends used to eat Mr. Noodles like all the time and she got cancer."
2. I then shared my quit smoking tactic of having cigarettes around to make it too easy to go back to smoking and the Mr. Noodles wrecking bastards scolded me and disagreed with me. I should've told them that I had a friend who quit smoking by getting rid of all things cigarette and they got cancer anyhow, but, I am not a liar (and I hate myself for it).
3. I went to postcard story night. Basically, all of the writing kids get together and are given one phrase chosen at random from a book and have 5 minutes to write a story about it, pretty much an excuse to drink beer. That's when my non-soberness began. A pitcher in I wrote the following stories:
"All the school girls have passed me by I mean I'll buy the cookies I'll give them a tip. I support the Girl Scouts of America. One minor sexual transgression doesn't mean I'll reoffend, right? And, since when is wearing mirrors on your shoes a crime? If they did that on the runways of Europe I wouldn't have gotten 3-5. I'd be praised as a fashion pioneer. "Hey girl scout, come on over here. I'll buy some of your delicious cookies."
And,
"Beauty does not rest but ugly does. In fact if you rest enough you just may become the ugliest person alive. This is the first time I've been awake in 47 days, 3 hours, and 21 minutes. I haven't gotten all that much uglier, but I am trying. One day I will be the ugliest I"ll show that Barry Manilow that it'll be me one day. I'll get a crown and a sash and be able to throw candy at the brats watching the parade. Gotta rest."
4. After the postcards and a few pitchers we headed to one of the writer's houses. She lives in a well, a hippie art commune sort of place. I am positive it is freaky enough during the daylight hours sober but under darkness and the influence it was downright surreal. The walls were crumbling, people were hula-hooping and I ended up next to a guy playing Neutral Milk Hotel songs on a guitar and singing along. Not to mention the weird lighted garden, the Robert Benigni-ish guy running around and beat boxing, the huge orange cat that looked like it would burst into a Shakespearean soliloquy at any moment, and the white-haired vaguely foreign child molester ringleader pushing petitions to keep the dump from being taken by the city. I wouldn't have believed any of this but some jackass put up a video of it on youtube (isn't that always the case).
5. When I finally made it home my keys flew into my toilet and I fell asleep awaking this morning to find stuff strewn all over my apartment and me (somewhat miraculously) clad in pajamas. Damn, I thought, I didn't bring anyone home.
Which brings me to today. I went to breakfast (again, miraculously). Everyone asked me if I was sick, shifting over in their chairs at my presence. I told them that I was just hungover to ease their fears of catching diseases or killer flu viruses. Telling them the truth was a huge mistake as I had to hear 10 different people say the exact same, "Whoa, you got drunk on a Tuesday?" What they meant to say was, "Whoa you got drunk on a Tuesday, you must have a huge drinking problem and hate yourself." What their unconscious meant to say was, "Whoa you got drunk on a Tuesday, I spent my Tuesday night alone in my room grading papers that will be forgotten about wishing I had a friend that isn't just an avatar."
I choked down my eggs and three glasses of water chased by three glasses of milk. I don't know what it is about milk lately...and went back to bed and back to sleep after an hour of imagining myself initiate a kiss on my crush of the moment. My life would be so much more exciting if I was a pervert.
The day passed by and I fed two of my friends for dinner at the risk of them realizing how much of a loser I am by interacting with my rezmates. They realized it. But, I have a feeling they already know I'm a loser and are befriending me out of a twisted charity like on Clueless.
After supper my bodyguard and I (whom I just found out only hugged me the other night because he was being filmed, goddamn it) headed off to see some improv. The show was pretty good, except the clapping. Before each scene the audience and cast clapped out a rhythm (I hate clapping). Halfway through the first part of the show a guy walked in and I saw him go down the aisle. He was absolutely gorgeous in an adorable way. My friend called out to him, "Warren," in a loud whisper. He didn't hear. I whispered to her that I was in love with her friend. She told me he liked women and doesn't have a girlfriend and that he is ultra Christian, sort of. Jesus, I thought, but I said, "Does that mean no sex?"
After the show my friend left her umbrella and ran down to talk to Warren who looked stunning in his Kermit-green sweater. I nabbed the umbrella and the opportunity to meet him. (ultra Christians are pretty progressive these days, right?) At times like this I always pretend my life is a movie. I mean, I was in love with him at first sight. And, if you believe in something hard enough it will become true, except the toothfairy. So, I introduced myself to him in a really loud voice and immediately followed with, "I love you." He smiled the smile you smile when you want the tick-infested dog to back away. I followed with, "I mean, I love your sweater."
Later, Warren came up to me and my friends and I invited him to come to our postcard nights, because he said, "Well, maybe I'll see you guys around sometime like maybe for a drink." Promptly thereafter we started talking about Creative Writing and classes and he said the word, "Poetry" and like a retard-reflex (I know that's not proper but it sure does roll of the old naughty tongue nicely) I said, "I hate poetry." I think I've ruined my chances with my one true love forever. How can I be such a fool? But, if I keep believing that it'll work out then...I hope he's another toothfairy case.
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, October 26, 2009
Lefty, Interior Design, Down with VAFN, Spoilers, Spying FB-style
Day 61
This morning I was totally jazzed up to pop on my old school cover-your-ears headphones and crank up the M.J. I put them on and sound only came out in short bursts if I bent the cord just right. Finally, (after a block) I gave up. Sometimes I hate my self for being so old fashioned. I am stuck in my ways like a 65 year old widower whose wife died 15 years ago. I still don't care what any of those young whippersnappers say I'll never switch to earbuds. They are absolutely gross, who wants to stick something in their ear when they don't have to (hearing aids come on soon enough). Plus, every time I see them I think of those young couples (clearly, I am a geriatric) who each have one of those things rammed into an ear from the same I-pod. Is that what romance has become? Don't people just hold hands? Isn't that disgusting enough with all the viruses going around and all of that? Do we really need to be spreading whatever disgusting deposits we have in our ears? Would it be too much to ask for some nice huge round headphones from my friends for my birthday? Nah, if they really love me they'll buy me the headphones. Cause last time I checked earbuds weren't noise-cancelling and they could still hear my earbud disgusting speech over their indie emo watered down pop punk pussy music.
Anyway, spent most of the day sitting through boring classes. During the first one I spent most of my time pretending like I wasn't afraid of sitting by the girl who had swine flu last week. I nearly passed out when she asked to borrow my pen. Luckily, during the second long course of the day I remembered that when I was in high school I used to take notes left-handed to cure the boredom. I started writing with my left hand and was delighted to find that my normally well-behaved seatmate took up with my suggestion to do the same. He spent a lot of time perfecting the first letter of his name. I was pleased with it until he ventured out writing coherent full words and finally (in a final slap in the face) he drew a near perfect rendition of Homer Simpson, with his left hand! Maybe this is a game I should play alone.
After dinner my friend down the hall and I decided that instead of studying we should decorate our walls. We hung up shit in an effort to make our rooms feel more like home, not really thinking that if we spend all of our time doing that we will fail out of school and have to find a new home. But, she gave me some neat oversized pictures of her native Amsterdam and a world map. I was especially pleased with the world map now I won't have to go out in the hallway when I make a new friend from a foreign country to locate their homeland on a wall map. Sure we were given world maps in grade school but, they mostly just contained the states. Sure, I can name and locate all fifty states (except the tiny New England clustered ones) but I'm not really sure where Jordan is, it's hard enough that we had to learn Puerto Rico.
There may be something strange happening in the dining hall (somehow, maybe through telepathy) the cooks have heard my complaint against VAFN (vaguely Asian food night). Tonight we had tacos. And the entire dinner time I had to listen to the Southern girl bitch and moan that me and the Norwegian stole her idea when she noticed that we had made taco salads. Really? Are you so self-righteous to think you invented a taco salad? Perhaps, what I have been bullshitting to her regarding the lack of education in the American South is actually true (I knew it all along).
I watched a movie tonight called, "My Best Friend is a Vampire" a 1987 horror spoof/teen comedy. It was awesome because Robert Sean Leonard was a baby in it with a horrible haircut and completely shitty acting skills AND Cathy Bates played a mother in the film and she was actually quite thin (that's what was creepy not the vampirism). The only problem with the whole thing is that I was joined halfway through by somebody who had (by some freak coincidence/accident?) seen the film before. During the movie, I asked aloud in astonishment, "What does the mother think?" And immediately my co-movie viewer said, "She thinks he's gay." Which totally ruined the punchline at the end of the film. I swear one day I'm gonna...I don't know what, but movie spoilers better watch their mouths before I fill them full of dryer lint and tape them shut.
Moving on, I was joined by a friend about ten minutes ago who had a question about the sexual orientation of another friend of ours. So, I started browsing around on facebook and she pulled up a seat alongside me saying that she'd never before spied on people like this. And later she admitted that it was fun. One convert for me. Hahaha. I am a pusher but unlike a drug dealer I get no monetary kick back for my efforts. Perhaps, I should contact facebook and let them know how much I contribute to their site in the way of social interactions that don't involve social interaction, isn't' that the whole idea behind the damn site?
Finally, R.I.P. Mermaid girl I wish I could've met you in another format than through your death notice on shitty yahoo.ca news. I am sure you were a wonderful girl.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I was totally jazzed up to pop on my old school cover-your-ears headphones and crank up the M.J. I put them on and sound only came out in short bursts if I bent the cord just right. Finally, (after a block) I gave up. Sometimes I hate my self for being so old fashioned. I am stuck in my ways like a 65 year old widower whose wife died 15 years ago. I still don't care what any of those young whippersnappers say I'll never switch to earbuds. They are absolutely gross, who wants to stick something in their ear when they don't have to (hearing aids come on soon enough). Plus, every time I see them I think of those young couples (clearly, I am a geriatric) who each have one of those things rammed into an ear from the same I-pod. Is that what romance has become? Don't people just hold hands? Isn't that disgusting enough with all the viruses going around and all of that? Do we really need to be spreading whatever disgusting deposits we have in our ears? Would it be too much to ask for some nice huge round headphones from my friends for my birthday? Nah, if they really love me they'll buy me the headphones. Cause last time I checked earbuds weren't noise-cancelling and they could still hear my earbud disgusting speech over their indie emo watered down pop punk pussy music.
Anyway, spent most of the day sitting through boring classes. During the first one I spent most of my time pretending like I wasn't afraid of sitting by the girl who had swine flu last week. I nearly passed out when she asked to borrow my pen. Luckily, during the second long course of the day I remembered that when I was in high school I used to take notes left-handed to cure the boredom. I started writing with my left hand and was delighted to find that my normally well-behaved seatmate took up with my suggestion to do the same. He spent a lot of time perfecting the first letter of his name. I was pleased with it until he ventured out writing coherent full words and finally (in a final slap in the face) he drew a near perfect rendition of Homer Simpson, with his left hand! Maybe this is a game I should play alone.
After dinner my friend down the hall and I decided that instead of studying we should decorate our walls. We hung up shit in an effort to make our rooms feel more like home, not really thinking that if we spend all of our time doing that we will fail out of school and have to find a new home. But, she gave me some neat oversized pictures of her native Amsterdam and a world map. I was especially pleased with the world map now I won't have to go out in the hallway when I make a new friend from a foreign country to locate their homeland on a wall map. Sure we were given world maps in grade school but, they mostly just contained the states. Sure, I can name and locate all fifty states (except the tiny New England clustered ones) but I'm not really sure where Jordan is, it's hard enough that we had to learn Puerto Rico.
There may be something strange happening in the dining hall (somehow, maybe through telepathy) the cooks have heard my complaint against VAFN (vaguely Asian food night). Tonight we had tacos. And the entire dinner time I had to listen to the Southern girl bitch and moan that me and the Norwegian stole her idea when she noticed that we had made taco salads. Really? Are you so self-righteous to think you invented a taco salad? Perhaps, what I have been bullshitting to her regarding the lack of education in the American South is actually true (I knew it all along).
I watched a movie tonight called, "My Best Friend is a Vampire" a 1987 horror spoof/teen comedy. It was awesome because Robert Sean Leonard was a baby in it with a horrible haircut and completely shitty acting skills AND Cathy Bates played a mother in the film and she was actually quite thin (that's what was creepy not the vampirism). The only problem with the whole thing is that I was joined halfway through by somebody who had (by some freak coincidence/accident?) seen the film before. During the movie, I asked aloud in astonishment, "What does the mother think?" And immediately my co-movie viewer said, "She thinks he's gay." Which totally ruined the punchline at the end of the film. I swear one day I'm gonna...I don't know what, but movie spoilers better watch their mouths before I fill them full of dryer lint and tape them shut.
Moving on, I was joined by a friend about ten minutes ago who had a question about the sexual orientation of another friend of ours. So, I started browsing around on facebook and she pulled up a seat alongside me saying that she'd never before spied on people like this. And later she admitted that it was fun. One convert for me. Hahaha. I am a pusher but unlike a drug dealer I get no monetary kick back for my efforts. Perhaps, I should contact facebook and let them know how much I contribute to their site in the way of social interactions that don't involve social interaction, isn't' that the whole idea behind the damn site?
Finally, R.I.P. Mermaid girl I wish I could've met you in another format than through your death notice on shitty yahoo.ca news. I am sure you were a wonderful girl.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, October 25, 2009
CANDY!, Notification: People are Self-involved, Fancy Coffeeshop, Surfing USA, Annoying Girly-ness
Day 60
I just finished my candy stash except for a few Zotz and some disgusting gummy turtles that I will choke down when the Zotz are gone. I may pass out from a sugar high or crash into diabetic shock at any moment, but if you are around and happen to have some Milka chocolate come on by. Anyway, here goes:
This morning I woke up to 34 facebook notifications, that's what it must be like to be popular I thought putting on my imaginary Homecoming Queen tiara and making a sash out of my pirate shark towel. I clicked on thinking, I'd better suck up to my constituents. Turns out when you post up pics at 3 am people tag themselves and when people tag themselves you get notified. Not all of it was tagging though, some of it was caption conversations my so-called friends were having with each other. It's lonely at the top.
Let's see what else...
We death-marched to Starbucks it started to rain halfway there. If it rains everyday why is it so hard to remember to bring an umbrella? Wait, don't answer that, I come out looking bad if you do.
Starbucks has a ridiculous amount of mugs for sale that say "Starbucks". One time I went into a Starbucks with a mug from somewhere else and the entire three person staff commented on it. There is an advertisement for Starbucks in Starbucks that says something like, "Who would taste 250 cups of coffee to find just the right beans?" and then provides no answer. How is that rhetorical?
At supper we had veggie bratwursts (kind of like dog food that has been soggified and then put into the shape of a wiener and baked to have a hard shell). They didn't taste good but they threw nicely across the dining hall. If I didn't live with a bunch of nerds who never broke the rules dinner could've actually been fun.
So instead of going to choir practice (I've realized I am more of a solo artist) I went to the TV room to watch, "School of Rock" on TBS. Turns out we don't get TBS which was fine by me as I am getting to be an excellent surfer. But, my skills go appreciated by the un-American people. Apparently, some (foreign) people are just satisfied watching one program which would be totally fine if "Intervention" was on, but if it's not we have to make do. Anyway, they got their revenge by making me watch some boring British show for like 10 full minutes without flipping. They have inadvertently found an American torture tactic, I hope my straightface held, if not America may be in danger.
I really resent sometimes how girly I can be. No, I'm not talking about makeup or my frequent trips to Claires, but the fact that I cannot sit through an action film, EVER. Not even if that action film is based on a comic book cause let's face it I like girly non-superhero comics no matter how much I pretend like I know about Batman and Spiderman and the like I am just a lying poser, guy comic fan wannabe. (How many Hail Mary's does that confession warrant?) Tonight I tried, seriously I tried, to watch the latest Transformers movies. I walked out after a half an hour nearly shaking from either lack of candy or comedy, hard to say which. Maybe I'll give it a shot another day with something a little more tame like, Batman Returns, I think Danny DeVito's in that one, he's funny, right?
-Canadian (wussy girl) Castaway
I just finished my candy stash except for a few Zotz and some disgusting gummy turtles that I will choke down when the Zotz are gone. I may pass out from a sugar high or crash into diabetic shock at any moment, but if you are around and happen to have some Milka chocolate come on by. Anyway, here goes:
This morning I woke up to 34 facebook notifications, that's what it must be like to be popular I thought putting on my imaginary Homecoming Queen tiara and making a sash out of my pirate shark towel. I clicked on thinking, I'd better suck up to my constituents. Turns out when you post up pics at 3 am people tag themselves and when people tag themselves you get notified. Not all of it was tagging though, some of it was caption conversations my so-called friends were having with each other. It's lonely at the top.
Let's see what else...
We death-marched to Starbucks it started to rain halfway there. If it rains everyday why is it so hard to remember to bring an umbrella? Wait, don't answer that, I come out looking bad if you do.
Starbucks has a ridiculous amount of mugs for sale that say "Starbucks". One time I went into a Starbucks with a mug from somewhere else and the entire three person staff commented on it. There is an advertisement for Starbucks in Starbucks that says something like, "Who would taste 250 cups of coffee to find just the right beans?" and then provides no answer. How is that rhetorical?
At supper we had veggie bratwursts (kind of like dog food that has been soggified and then put into the shape of a wiener and baked to have a hard shell). They didn't taste good but they threw nicely across the dining hall. If I didn't live with a bunch of nerds who never broke the rules dinner could've actually been fun.
So instead of going to choir practice (I've realized I am more of a solo artist) I went to the TV room to watch, "School of Rock" on TBS. Turns out we don't get TBS which was fine by me as I am getting to be an excellent surfer. But, my skills go appreciated by the un-American people. Apparently, some (foreign) people are just satisfied watching one program which would be totally fine if "Intervention" was on, but if it's not we have to make do. Anyway, they got their revenge by making me watch some boring British show for like 10 full minutes without flipping. They have inadvertently found an American torture tactic, I hope my straightface held, if not America may be in danger.
I really resent sometimes how girly I can be. No, I'm not talking about makeup or my frequent trips to Claires, but the fact that I cannot sit through an action film, EVER. Not even if that action film is based on a comic book cause let's face it I like girly non-superhero comics no matter how much I pretend like I know about Batman and Spiderman and the like I am just a lying poser, guy comic fan wannabe. (How many Hail Mary's does that confession warrant?) Tonight I tried, seriously I tried, to watch the latest Transformers movies. I walked out after a half an hour nearly shaking from either lack of candy or comedy, hard to say which. Maybe I'll give it a shot another day with something a little more tame like, Batman Returns, I think Danny DeVito's in that one, he's funny, right?
-Canadian (wussy girl) Castaway
French Canadian Breakfast, Bumming Compliments, Poetry Still Sucks, Dead Souls, and Many, Many Busses
Day 59
This morning I stole a waffle from my least favorite French Canadian. The only good part about living in a cultish residence hall is that sometimes people decide to cook and invite everyone. Today was one of those days. Anyway, the French Canadian made the perfect waffle and topped it with a delicious spread of fruit and started to sit down to eat it and I asked him if it was for me. He reluctantly passed it over. I smiled cherishing every bite of the waffle thinking to myself, I can't believe I am eating a waffle made by a jackass with his ass crack pouring out the top of his pants, wait that's every cook in every restaurant back home. At least here I saw him cook the food and know that he did nothing to tamper with it.
We (a group from the breakfast crew) set out to go to a tri-level thriftstore in the "bad part of town." The bus took forever and we played a Bill Nye the Science Guy trivia game until a drugged out bum came and sat near us and said to me, "I think you're really beautiful." (why is it that I only hear that from drugged out crazies?) He poked my friend and started to ask her a series of questions. Luckily, the candystore was at the next stop, we all clambered off the bus.
We got back on the bus and rode for like 3 hours (40 minutes) which was super boring except when we got to the "bad part of town" a guy wearing a boom box got on and played music AND the best part of my day happened. We were parked at a stop and I watched an old woman pull her teeth out of her mouth, rinse them in milk, and put them back in.
After out thrifting adventures I set out with my bodyguard to go to a poetry reading (yuck) well, he said it was an open mic. Turns out that a tiny portion of it wasn't middle-aged women reading poems about men, there was a few younger people reading poems about men, and one very gesture-orientated guy reciting a poem about his ex-girlfriend and one poem vaguely about the bible (probably about ex-girlfriend). The bible one was worth it simply because he pretended to be a movie version of Moses for like 5 seconds. Man, I forgot how exciting open mic night can be (I'd rather watch a badminton tournament followed by a golf game) at least I sat by my favorite gay couple and watched them hold flirty staring contests.
After the poetry we all set out to find a parade of dead souls. We (group of writers) climbed onto a overloaded bus and got to feel the asses of strangers pitted against our own after that we got to meet Charlie Chaplin, Liza Minelli, and an Asian slut with incredible eye makeup. After we peeled ourselves out of the bus and I got made fun of for hand-sanitizing myself we walked twelve blocks to what we found out was a cancelled parade. The parade had been cancelled but there were people throwing sticks of fire and circle dancing to a band with an abnormally large horn section. Among the dancers was a giant owl and an extremely tall girl in a bloody wedding dress and a bass drum strapped onto her mingling both mingled with skeletons and devils. One of our group had red makeup and she drew on our cheeks, she drew a penis on mine.
Anyway, we ended up at a bar where I ate pepperoni for the first time in 7 years (again, what the fuck was I thinking with this vegetarian shit). On the bus ride home we met up with a guy carrying a large pink fuzzy bird head and his group of friends. The bird head guy had a beer in the bird head, the girl next to him had a bottle of wine inside her fur coat and the girl next to her had a tiny purse that held a bottle of whisky.
We got off that bus and walked a friend home and on the next bus back we sat next to a guy that I liked that never emailed me back and across from a guy who stumbled onto the bus carrying a giant flower pot filled with dirt and three smaller pots atop it filled with dying flowers. He dropped the flowers onto the bus floor and picked them back up, turned to the stranger next to him and said, "Look, I made this for you," presenting her with the flowers. She turned away.
That's all I got tonight.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I stole a waffle from my least favorite French Canadian. The only good part about living in a cultish residence hall is that sometimes people decide to cook and invite everyone. Today was one of those days. Anyway, the French Canadian made the perfect waffle and topped it with a delicious spread of fruit and started to sit down to eat it and I asked him if it was for me. He reluctantly passed it over. I smiled cherishing every bite of the waffle thinking to myself, I can't believe I am eating a waffle made by a jackass with his ass crack pouring out the top of his pants, wait that's every cook in every restaurant back home. At least here I saw him cook the food and know that he did nothing to tamper with it.
We (a group from the breakfast crew) set out to go to a tri-level thriftstore in the "bad part of town." The bus took forever and we played a Bill Nye the Science Guy trivia game until a drugged out bum came and sat near us and said to me, "I think you're really beautiful." (why is it that I only hear that from drugged out crazies?) He poked my friend and started to ask her a series of questions. Luckily, the candystore was at the next stop, we all clambered off the bus.
We got back on the bus and rode for like 3 hours (40 minutes) which was super boring except when we got to the "bad part of town" a guy wearing a boom box got on and played music AND the best part of my day happened. We were parked at a stop and I watched an old woman pull her teeth out of her mouth, rinse them in milk, and put them back in.
After out thrifting adventures I set out with my bodyguard to go to a poetry reading (yuck) well, he said it was an open mic. Turns out that a tiny portion of it wasn't middle-aged women reading poems about men, there was a few younger people reading poems about men, and one very gesture-orientated guy reciting a poem about his ex-girlfriend and one poem vaguely about the bible (probably about ex-girlfriend). The bible one was worth it simply because he pretended to be a movie version of Moses for like 5 seconds. Man, I forgot how exciting open mic night can be (I'd rather watch a badminton tournament followed by a golf game) at least I sat by my favorite gay couple and watched them hold flirty staring contests.
After the poetry we all set out to find a parade of dead souls. We (group of writers) climbed onto a overloaded bus and got to feel the asses of strangers pitted against our own after that we got to meet Charlie Chaplin, Liza Minelli, and an Asian slut with incredible eye makeup. After we peeled ourselves out of the bus and I got made fun of for hand-sanitizing myself we walked twelve blocks to what we found out was a cancelled parade. The parade had been cancelled but there were people throwing sticks of fire and circle dancing to a band with an abnormally large horn section. Among the dancers was a giant owl and an extremely tall girl in a bloody wedding dress and a bass drum strapped onto her mingling both mingled with skeletons and devils. One of our group had red makeup and she drew on our cheeks, she drew a penis on mine.
Anyway, we ended up at a bar where I ate pepperoni for the first time in 7 years (again, what the fuck was I thinking with this vegetarian shit). On the bus ride home we met up with a guy carrying a large pink fuzzy bird head and his group of friends. The bird head guy had a beer in the bird head, the girl next to him had a bottle of wine inside her fur coat and the girl next to her had a tiny purse that held a bottle of whisky.
We got off that bus and walked a friend home and on the next bus back we sat next to a guy that I liked that never emailed me back and across from a guy who stumbled onto the bus carrying a giant flower pot filled with dirt and three smaller pots atop it filled with dying flowers. He dropped the flowers onto the bus floor and picked them back up, turned to the stranger next to him and said, "Look, I made this for you," presenting her with the flowers. She turned away.
That's all I got tonight.
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Umbrella Tragedy, I Am Not Really Loved, Hugh Grant's Hair, Attraction Distraction, Wine-athon
Day 58
Today will go down in history as the matching umbrella day and the 321st day I was reminded that I am a loser.
Umbrella history: When I arrived in Vancouver I bought a super cheap obnoxious-red umbrella (red so I wouldn't lose it, or so nobody would steal it) and then I went to class and met Bill. Bill is one of those prissy, trendster white belt with tightish jeans sort of guys. We all thought he was gay. Anyway, turns out he's not, allegedly. Bill and I were walking with a group of students to the bar where a faculty member was going to teach us how to drink when I noticed Bill swinging a pink, purple, blue, and tan striped umbrella. I inquired to Bill about it and he said that he didn't really like it because he thought it made him look too girly. I confirmed this and made a deal to trade my shitty umbrella plus a couple of bucks in exchange. He agreed (probably because he was too afraid to say no and I wouldn't shut up about the girlyness factor). I clearly got the better end of the bargain as the next rainy day came along I saw Bill try to wrangle the bent metal spires of my umbrella closed, and failed. So, you can see I have some true umbrella pride not only did I swindle Bill but, I got a sturdy stylish umbrella with the super cool point-tip end to jab people with. (You still with me? That was pretty long and boring, huh?)
Anyway, so there I am under my prized umbrella tromping around in the rain today, all pissed off and what do I see? Well, tons of other people with umbrellas. I inventoried bowl-shaped umbrellas, Hello Kitty umbrellas, Lacy-umbrellas, matching ugly golf umbrellas, two people squeezed under a tiny travel umbrella (which was both funny and sad, but mostly funny) and then I saw it, the exact same umbrella as my Bill umbrella. It was like wearing the same cocktail dress to a small, elite social gathering, at least I think that's what it was like I don't really wear dressed or get invited to small, elite social gatherings. What am I gonna do now? Not only do I have to get a new umbrella, but I have to create a bigger swindle and backstory for my next umbrella. Goddamn bitch, didn't she realize she would ruin lives when she bought that umbrella at London Drug--wait a minute, maybe she swindled hers to. Hmm...
So, the 321st time I realized I was a loser (and that is just the tally from the past two months) happened today when I read a cute facebook post from my bodyguard inquiring if I was sick. (I had told him last night I was ill) Anyway, I wrote back instructing him to stop being so nice and concerned because it was making me feel guilty for picking on him all the time (which it was) and he wrote back something to the affect of, "Nice? That wasn't nice. You haven't seen nice yet, it would terrify you." I smiled, he's clever.
It's not like I am attracted to him or want to learn to be attracted to him but it was nice to be flirted with (if that was flirting, I'm gonna take it as flirting). Then later this evening I was milling around on facebook doing my usual stalk-through (for the millionth time, don't pretend like you don't know that's what the Internet was invented for) when I came upon another girl who was conversing with him on his wall and wouldn't you know he was going on and on with her saying cute-sy little things. This is all fine, I've told him to ask her out many times. But, it totally ruined the cuteness of my comment from him, what an insensitive ass. I wonder if I could get myself a life for cheap on craigslist or at least a cheap operation that puts a sensor in my brain for stopping me from making improper assumptions regarding facebook postings.
So, tonight we (5 girls and one straight guy) watched Love Actually in the TV room. The film itself was alright except it didn't end well for the office couple (what an idiot that woman was Carl was gorgeous). Anyway, the person we borrowed the movie from was in the room and all of the other girls went on this gushy tirade about how wonderful and beautiful Hugh Grant is. I looked at the screen and noticed for the first time ever, that his hair looks like total shit. It was all cut at funny angles and sort of poofed up in the front. I mentioned this to the others and I thought they would kill me and they probably would have except they were too busy watching Hugh Grant. Really, Liam Neeson was hotter.
So, anyway, we are watching the movie and the guy sitting next to me on my couch was what a friend has described to me as a 9 (on a scale of 1-10, if ten were impossibly hot). He was sitting really close. We could feel each others movements. I've never had a 9 come so voluntarily close to me. He nestled into the couch like it was extremely comfortable to be that close to me. He even laughed when I made silly comments. This would all have been like a fairy tale except that the woman he is seeing was sitting on the couch next to mine. I could feel his body next to mine, but I could also feel his eyes glance over to meet hers. As you can imagine this made it almost torturous to pay attention to the now goofy looking Hugh. After the anti-climactic Carl sex scene there really wasn't much gorgeous to watch. I never brought myself to look into my couchmate's eyes when he glanced over to his woman, maybe they were looking at me (yeah, I'm that self righteous). But, it's not like there is anything to be done about taken man. And, it's like my friend said, "9's date 9's." But, she never said what number I was...
-Canadian Castaway
So yesterday I got yelled at by the (Canadian) President for leading off a "contingent" from attending a lecture held at the residence hall which ended with the President telling me he was sorry for God knows what I'd stopped listening. And tonight, I got yelled at by a resident for being too loud in the hallway. The yeller was obviously Canadian because by the time all the words were exchanged she was apologzing for her interruption into our conversation. I wonder what it takes for Canadian's to NOT aplogize to you when they are reprimanding you. It's like they are ruining being naughty by taking away the badness in it, if there is a chance you get yelled at then your deed would be considered bad, but if you know you are gonna get bitched at and then apologized to then where's the badness? Things are so much more clear back home.
-Canadian Castaway
Also, it's okay to wear sweatpants everyday, right? And, it's not even frumpy if they have rhinestones right? Shit. I guess I just won't leave my room.
Today will go down in history as the matching umbrella day and the 321st day I was reminded that I am a loser.
Umbrella history: When I arrived in Vancouver I bought a super cheap obnoxious-red umbrella (red so I wouldn't lose it, or so nobody would steal it) and then I went to class and met Bill. Bill is one of those prissy, trendster white belt with tightish jeans sort of guys. We all thought he was gay. Anyway, turns out he's not, allegedly. Bill and I were walking with a group of students to the bar where a faculty member was going to teach us how to drink when I noticed Bill swinging a pink, purple, blue, and tan striped umbrella. I inquired to Bill about it and he said that he didn't really like it because he thought it made him look too girly. I confirmed this and made a deal to trade my shitty umbrella plus a couple of bucks in exchange. He agreed (probably because he was too afraid to say no and I wouldn't shut up about the girlyness factor). I clearly got the better end of the bargain as the next rainy day came along I saw Bill try to wrangle the bent metal spires of my umbrella closed, and failed. So, you can see I have some true umbrella pride not only did I swindle Bill but, I got a sturdy stylish umbrella with the super cool point-tip end to jab people with. (You still with me? That was pretty long and boring, huh?)
Anyway, so there I am under my prized umbrella tromping around in the rain today, all pissed off and what do I see? Well, tons of other people with umbrellas. I inventoried bowl-shaped umbrellas, Hello Kitty umbrellas, Lacy-umbrellas, matching ugly golf umbrellas, two people squeezed under a tiny travel umbrella (which was both funny and sad, but mostly funny) and then I saw it, the exact same umbrella as my Bill umbrella. It was like wearing the same cocktail dress to a small, elite social gathering, at least I think that's what it was like I don't really wear dressed or get invited to small, elite social gatherings. What am I gonna do now? Not only do I have to get a new umbrella, but I have to create a bigger swindle and backstory for my next umbrella. Goddamn bitch, didn't she realize she would ruin lives when she bought that umbrella at London Drug--wait a minute, maybe she swindled hers to. Hmm...
So, the 321st time I realized I was a loser (and that is just the tally from the past two months) happened today when I read a cute facebook post from my bodyguard inquiring if I was sick. (I had told him last night I was ill) Anyway, I wrote back instructing him to stop being so nice and concerned because it was making me feel guilty for picking on him all the time (which it was) and he wrote back something to the affect of, "Nice? That wasn't nice. You haven't seen nice yet, it would terrify you." I smiled, he's clever.
It's not like I am attracted to him or want to learn to be attracted to him but it was nice to be flirted with (if that was flirting, I'm gonna take it as flirting). Then later this evening I was milling around on facebook doing my usual stalk-through (for the millionth time, don't pretend like you don't know that's what the Internet was invented for) when I came upon another girl who was conversing with him on his wall and wouldn't you know he was going on and on with her saying cute-sy little things. This is all fine, I've told him to ask her out many times. But, it totally ruined the cuteness of my comment from him, what an insensitive ass. I wonder if I could get myself a life for cheap on craigslist or at least a cheap operation that puts a sensor in my brain for stopping me from making improper assumptions regarding facebook postings.
So, tonight we (5 girls and one straight guy) watched Love Actually in the TV room. The film itself was alright except it didn't end well for the office couple (what an idiot that woman was Carl was gorgeous). Anyway, the person we borrowed the movie from was in the room and all of the other girls went on this gushy tirade about how wonderful and beautiful Hugh Grant is. I looked at the screen and noticed for the first time ever, that his hair looks like total shit. It was all cut at funny angles and sort of poofed up in the front. I mentioned this to the others and I thought they would kill me and they probably would have except they were too busy watching Hugh Grant. Really, Liam Neeson was hotter.
So, anyway, we are watching the movie and the guy sitting next to me on my couch was what a friend has described to me as a 9 (on a scale of 1-10, if ten were impossibly hot). He was sitting really close. We could feel each others movements. I've never had a 9 come so voluntarily close to me. He nestled into the couch like it was extremely comfortable to be that close to me. He even laughed when I made silly comments. This would all have been like a fairy tale except that the woman he is seeing was sitting on the couch next to mine. I could feel his body next to mine, but I could also feel his eyes glance over to meet hers. As you can imagine this made it almost torturous to pay attention to the now goofy looking Hugh. After the anti-climactic Carl sex scene there really wasn't much gorgeous to watch. I never brought myself to look into my couchmate's eyes when he glanced over to his woman, maybe they were looking at me (yeah, I'm that self righteous). But, it's not like there is anything to be done about taken man. And, it's like my friend said, "9's date 9's." But, she never said what number I was...
-Canadian Castaway
So yesterday I got yelled at by the (Canadian) President for leading off a "contingent" from attending a lecture held at the residence hall which ended with the President telling me he was sorry for God knows what I'd stopped listening. And tonight, I got yelled at by a resident for being too loud in the hallway. The yeller was obviously Canadian because by the time all the words were exchanged she was apologzing for her interruption into our conversation. I wonder what it takes for Canadian's to NOT aplogize to you when they are reprimanding you. It's like they are ruining being naughty by taking away the badness in it, if there is a chance you get yelled at then your deed would be considered bad, but if you know you are gonna get bitched at and then apologized to then where's the badness? Things are so much more clear back home.
-Canadian Castaway
Also, it's okay to wear sweatpants everyday, right? And, it's not even frumpy if they have rhinestones right? Shit. I guess I just won't leave my room.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Creeper Patrol, Naughty Girl, Wild Things and the Onset of Old Age
Day 57
So there I was in my room getting stuff done all morning. I finally opened my door to go and brag to my neighbor of my many accomplishments when I saw him. Yesterday, in the chairs directly across from my doorway was seated a smallish man with huge glasses and a tupperware container and he was back. I know it doesn't sound that intimidating, but come on he was seriously right in front of my door. I scurried to my friend's door and rushed in to tell her. She emailed my next door neighbor to go and talk to the creeper. I peeped out and saw the president of my building (whatever the fuck that means) and I pulled the president into my friend's room. He went up to the guy and asked him what he was doing here and then came back to my friend's room and from the hallway said in a loud voice, "He's alright, he's just here for a conference all week that's down the hall." Great, I thought, now the psycho can hear that I was afraid, never show your fear.
Anyway, shortly after that my neighbor comes knocking on my friend's door to report that the guy was harmless (I still didn't buy it). I told him we already knew and we had a laugh that the hallway creeper was asked twice within 10 minutes what his business was eating his lunch in our hallway. Ha! That's what you get creep, see you tomorrow, unless you're too scared to roll in my hallway again.
A friend and I were to head out to see Where the Wild Things Are after supper. She suggested I send out an email to the residents inviting them to tag along seeing as we hate how we are always being left out of activities. I did, only semi-remembering the email we had received from the president requesting our presence at the lectures the college hosts and remembering the fact that one of those lectures was happening this evening. Guess who emailed me back?
Yeah, that's right the president emailed me. But, from the tone and content of the email he seemed more like a disappointed dad or a mean high school geometry teacher. I read through and wrote an apology stating that I didn't mean to defy his wishes. Then, I went out to find my friend and bitch about getting scolded and who should I see...that's right Mr. Principal (pal my ass). I confronted him about the issue and in true Canadian style he apologized to me and told me everything was just fine and then commended me on spotting a potential creep earlier in the day. What a great country. I bet I could easily become dictator one day. What's that you say? They don't have a dictator, wait until I get ahold of that prime minister and for my transgressions he will apologize and offer me the position straight away and commend me on taking over.
We gobbled up our dinner and then snuck out into the darkness as the good residents were settling in for their long lecture. Since I took extra minutes to go to the bathroom (which I heard about nearly the whole way there) I had to gallop along behind my fast-walking friend to catch the bus on time. The last leg was an all out sprint I was sweating when we finally reached it. Anyway, we got into the theater barely on time. Really, I can't live my life racing around like a moron and to think I was actually considering jogging (what? I was drunk at the time and eating pizza jogging seemed like a good IDEA). The movie was great except for the camera work and the music.
I finally understand why my father can't watch Craig Ferguson. He always complains of him jumping in front of the camera. When I watched the movie tonight there were quite a few running scenes when the camera would move super fast, I'm not sure if it was the running, the tuna steak I ate, the beginnings of possible swine flu, the giant diet coke, or what but it made me nauseous. Then there was the music, which played even louder than the already boisterous sound system was set at and often cut off dialogue. After having mulled over these two issues I had with the film (other than that it was friggin incredible) I've diagnosed myself with early on-set old age.
But, it's not so bad with early on-set old age. Just think, I don't have any bratty grandkids to remember the names of or give a dollar each to at Christmas time. I don't even have to deal with children of my own. I am still in partial control of my faculties. I could still have sex (if I found anybody worthwhile). I don't have to wear dentures (although it might be fun to pop them out at strangers). And, I love watching Wheel of Fortune. I just wish I could get the senior citizen discount.
-Canadian Castaway
Boring Technical Note: My blogger account was down last night. I know, it was hell I had to drink a bottle of Ny-Quil to stop the tears long enough to sleep. But, it did give me some satisfaction to be realize (according to the help site) that there was an entire legion of damaged bloggy souls all discombobulated. Geez, blogs down for one night and they go all postal. It's not like I hit the desk or started pacing or, woke up before my alarm to check on my account, you'd have to be insane to act like that....shit. Anyway, this post was supposed to be up last night.
So there I was in my room getting stuff done all morning. I finally opened my door to go and brag to my neighbor of my many accomplishments when I saw him. Yesterday, in the chairs directly across from my doorway was seated a smallish man with huge glasses and a tupperware container and he was back. I know it doesn't sound that intimidating, but come on he was seriously right in front of my door. I scurried to my friend's door and rushed in to tell her. She emailed my next door neighbor to go and talk to the creeper. I peeped out and saw the president of my building (whatever the fuck that means) and I pulled the president into my friend's room. He went up to the guy and asked him what he was doing here and then came back to my friend's room and from the hallway said in a loud voice, "He's alright, he's just here for a conference all week that's down the hall." Great, I thought, now the psycho can hear that I was afraid, never show your fear.
Anyway, shortly after that my neighbor comes knocking on my friend's door to report that the guy was harmless (I still didn't buy it). I told him we already knew and we had a laugh that the hallway creeper was asked twice within 10 minutes what his business was eating his lunch in our hallway. Ha! That's what you get creep, see you tomorrow, unless you're too scared to roll in my hallway again.
A friend and I were to head out to see Where the Wild Things Are after supper. She suggested I send out an email to the residents inviting them to tag along seeing as we hate how we are always being left out of activities. I did, only semi-remembering the email we had received from the president requesting our presence at the lectures the college hosts and remembering the fact that one of those lectures was happening this evening. Guess who emailed me back?
Yeah, that's right the president emailed me. But, from the tone and content of the email he seemed more like a disappointed dad or a mean high school geometry teacher. I read through and wrote an apology stating that I didn't mean to defy his wishes. Then, I went out to find my friend and bitch about getting scolded and who should I see...that's right Mr. Principal (pal my ass). I confronted him about the issue and in true Canadian style he apologized to me and told me everything was just fine and then commended me on spotting a potential creep earlier in the day. What a great country. I bet I could easily become dictator one day. What's that you say? They don't have a dictator, wait until I get ahold of that prime minister and for my transgressions he will apologize and offer me the position straight away and commend me on taking over.
We gobbled up our dinner and then snuck out into the darkness as the good residents were settling in for their long lecture. Since I took extra minutes to go to the bathroom (which I heard about nearly the whole way there) I had to gallop along behind my fast-walking friend to catch the bus on time. The last leg was an all out sprint I was sweating when we finally reached it. Anyway, we got into the theater barely on time. Really, I can't live my life racing around like a moron and to think I was actually considering jogging (what? I was drunk at the time and eating pizza jogging seemed like a good IDEA). The movie was great except for the camera work and the music.
I finally understand why my father can't watch Craig Ferguson. He always complains of him jumping in front of the camera. When I watched the movie tonight there were quite a few running scenes when the camera would move super fast, I'm not sure if it was the running, the tuna steak I ate, the beginnings of possible swine flu, the giant diet coke, or what but it made me nauseous. Then there was the music, which played even louder than the already boisterous sound system was set at and often cut off dialogue. After having mulled over these two issues I had with the film (other than that it was friggin incredible) I've diagnosed myself with early on-set old age.
But, it's not so bad with early on-set old age. Just think, I don't have any bratty grandkids to remember the names of or give a dollar each to at Christmas time. I don't even have to deal with children of my own. I am still in partial control of my faculties. I could still have sex (if I found anybody worthwhile). I don't have to wear dentures (although it might be fun to pop them out at strangers). And, I love watching Wheel of Fortune. I just wish I could get the senior citizen discount.
-Canadian Castaway
Boring Technical Note: My blogger account was down last night. I know, it was hell I had to drink a bottle of Ny-Quil to stop the tears long enough to sleep. But, it did give me some satisfaction to be realize (according to the help site) that there was an entire legion of damaged bloggy souls all discombobulated. Geez, blogs down for one night and they go all postal. It's not like I hit the desk or started pacing or, woke up before my alarm to check on my account, you'd have to be insane to act like that....shit. Anyway, this post was supposed to be up last night.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Machine Interaction, Library Hideaways, Full Contact Pool, Microsoft Office Sucks, Thievery
Day 56
I was excited to go to the bank today to see my friend Hussein. He was standing at his podium when I came in (yeah, he has a podium) wearing his suit and tie but he was talking to a lady. I was immediately jealous. Anyway, I hopped in line and he snuck around behind me moments later and said, "Can I--hey, it's you." We greeted each other and then he started in. "What are you doing here today?" "Oh, I am depositing a check," I said, taken aback by his uncharacteristic nosiness. He then made a grand gesture to the wall of ATMs.
"Let me show you how to use the ATM, hmm?" I politely refused and confessed to him that I didn't trust the machines. He then gave me a presentation on what exactly happens when you make a deposit on the ATM machine. I refused again. and apologized. What the hell is this? Why was I apologizing? He persisted, saying that he'd help me and that there is no way the machine would mess up and yada, yada, "trust me," blah... Again, I refused and apologized (I am such a f-ing Canadian). Finally, he turned his back to me and greeted another bank customer with the same tone he'd originally had with me. I am starting to think we were never friends in the first place. Should I get a different bank, seeing as it's going to be awkward now? God, I am such a sucker for customer service false niceties. Oh well, I guess I can cross him off my birthday party guest list, I wonder what kind of gift he would've brought.
After the bank fiasco I was feeling a little broken hearted so I went to visit my friend Mr. Anderson. As in Sherwood Anderson! What, don't you know your American authors from the 1920's and 30's? Maybe if you turned off the Intervention for once...(nah, wait a minute I LOVE Intervention) Anyway, I found Sherwood's books and sat in the aisle of the bookcases. It was awesome. I was there for hours the only problem was that people walking by would gawk at me as if I were a shitting giraffe at the zoo. If only I could find a way to seal off the ends of the rows so that nobody could see in. Forget childhood hide-under-the-blanket-that-are-over-the chairs type hideaways they are boring once you are inside them, unless you bring snacks. In my library fort you would be surrounded by all of your friends and never bored (well, if you are a lonely bookworm that is). I suppose I could bring two huge sheets and write, "Emily's Secret Clubhouse" on them and hang them from on the ends of the rows. But, then I would have to make up a secret handshake and a password and write a manifesto and let other people in my fort. It's so hard to build a fort these days.
My free trial of Microsoft Office 2007 just ran out. Apparently, it no longer functions after that. I called my brother and asked him where I could download a version of it (those bastards only let me have one free trial, I'm still thinking about it) and he said, "I don't know go and buy it." He then told me that at his University bookstore it was only like ten bucks for a student.
I ran to the bookstore. I'd pay ten bucks for just about anything. Say, $10.50 and I refuse but 10... Anyway, I get there and see Microsoft Office 2007 behind a glass case. I get up close to it and the price tag reads like $179 bucks or something. That's insane! I thought computers came with this kind of shit but no, it's like a million dollars to be able to make your computer do anything useful. I can't decide if I should transfer to my brother's school or kill him for giving me false hope. $179 bucks, shit, I'm gonna have to quit drinking for a month to come up with that kind of money. Too bad I don't have any rich relatives that I hate that are fond of me and about to kick off. I think I'll beer the most.
Today I won three games of pool, in a row. (well, twice by default, but who cares) I also did something I haven't done since I was a naughty little girl in daycare. I hit someone. It was sorta by accident, I was trying to put him into a death grip hold and he moved and I nabbed him in the jaw (geez, it sounds bad when you write it out). So, I did what I had always done as a small child, I said I was "Sooorry" and, "You can hit me back." He looked at me like I was a crack addict asking if I could give him a blow job for 15 bucks. Yeah, it didn't work that well back then either, at least he didn't cry. I must say it was kind of embarrassing to have him flinch when I came within three feet of him. And, did he really have to rub his wound? It made me feel like such a bully. At least I didn't get a time out.
Finally, I committed my first act of actual thievery from the dining hall. I was plucking around in the coffee mugs when I saw my favorite mug. It looks like its from the 1950's and it may or may not be made from radioactive materials (uranium) like Fiestaware but it's not red so I think I am okay. Anyway, I still had some coffee in my mug and was forced to conduct a conversation over the head of an older professor. After a time I remembered he was sitting right next to me (he's old enough to be my grandfather) and then I remembered how many times I said the word "fuck" in the past five minutes (7) and started to feel bad. I grabbed up my mug and started toward the dish bin when I thought, "No, I want this." I snaked along the tables, keeping an eye on the dish attendant and made it to the doorways, where I noticed a neon pink sign that read, "Absolutely No Servery Dishes Beyond This Point". The old rush came on as I passed through the doorway. Hey, that's what they get for having VAFN (vaguely asian food night) all the damn time, right?
-Canadian Castaway
I was excited to go to the bank today to see my friend Hussein. He was standing at his podium when I came in (yeah, he has a podium) wearing his suit and tie but he was talking to a lady. I was immediately jealous. Anyway, I hopped in line and he snuck around behind me moments later and said, "Can I--hey, it's you." We greeted each other and then he started in. "What are you doing here today?" "Oh, I am depositing a check," I said, taken aback by his uncharacteristic nosiness. He then made a grand gesture to the wall of ATMs.
"Let me show you how to use the ATM, hmm?" I politely refused and confessed to him that I didn't trust the machines. He then gave me a presentation on what exactly happens when you make a deposit on the ATM machine. I refused again. and apologized. What the hell is this? Why was I apologizing? He persisted, saying that he'd help me and that there is no way the machine would mess up and yada, yada, "trust me," blah... Again, I refused and apologized (I am such a f-ing Canadian). Finally, he turned his back to me and greeted another bank customer with the same tone he'd originally had with me. I am starting to think we were never friends in the first place. Should I get a different bank, seeing as it's going to be awkward now? God, I am such a sucker for customer service false niceties. Oh well, I guess I can cross him off my birthday party guest list, I wonder what kind of gift he would've brought.
After the bank fiasco I was feeling a little broken hearted so I went to visit my friend Mr. Anderson. As in Sherwood Anderson! What, don't you know your American authors from the 1920's and 30's? Maybe if you turned off the Intervention for once...(nah, wait a minute I LOVE Intervention) Anyway, I found Sherwood's books and sat in the aisle of the bookcases. It was awesome. I was there for hours the only problem was that people walking by would gawk at me as if I were a shitting giraffe at the zoo. If only I could find a way to seal off the ends of the rows so that nobody could see in. Forget childhood hide-under-the-blanket-that-are-over-the chairs type hideaways they are boring once you are inside them, unless you bring snacks. In my library fort you would be surrounded by all of your friends and never bored (well, if you are a lonely bookworm that is). I suppose I could bring two huge sheets and write, "Emily's Secret Clubhouse" on them and hang them from on the ends of the rows. But, then I would have to make up a secret handshake and a password and write a manifesto and let other people in my fort. It's so hard to build a fort these days.
My free trial of Microsoft Office 2007 just ran out. Apparently, it no longer functions after that. I called my brother and asked him where I could download a version of it (those bastards only let me have one free trial, I'm still thinking about it) and he said, "I don't know go and buy it." He then told me that at his University bookstore it was only like ten bucks for a student.
I ran to the bookstore. I'd pay ten bucks for just about anything. Say, $10.50 and I refuse but 10... Anyway, I get there and see Microsoft Office 2007 behind a glass case. I get up close to it and the price tag reads like $179 bucks or something. That's insane! I thought computers came with this kind of shit but no, it's like a million dollars to be able to make your computer do anything useful. I can't decide if I should transfer to my brother's school or kill him for giving me false hope. $179 bucks, shit, I'm gonna have to quit drinking for a month to come up with that kind of money. Too bad I don't have any rich relatives that I hate that are fond of me and about to kick off. I think I'll beer the most.
Today I won three games of pool, in a row. (well, twice by default, but who cares) I also did something I haven't done since I was a naughty little girl in daycare. I hit someone. It was sorta by accident, I was trying to put him into a death grip hold and he moved and I nabbed him in the jaw (geez, it sounds bad when you write it out). So, I did what I had always done as a small child, I said I was "Sooorry" and, "You can hit me back." He looked at me like I was a crack addict asking if I could give him a blow job for 15 bucks. Yeah, it didn't work that well back then either, at least he didn't cry. I must say it was kind of embarrassing to have him flinch when I came within three feet of him. And, did he really have to rub his wound? It made me feel like such a bully. At least I didn't get a time out.
Finally, I committed my first act of actual thievery from the dining hall. I was plucking around in the coffee mugs when I saw my favorite mug. It looks like its from the 1950's and it may or may not be made from radioactive materials (uranium) like Fiestaware but it's not red so I think I am okay. Anyway, I still had some coffee in my mug and was forced to conduct a conversation over the head of an older professor. After a time I remembered he was sitting right next to me (he's old enough to be my grandfather) and then I remembered how many times I said the word "fuck" in the past five minutes (7) and started to feel bad. I grabbed up my mug and started toward the dish bin when I thought, "No, I want this." I snaked along the tables, keeping an eye on the dish attendant and made it to the doorways, where I noticed a neon pink sign that read, "Absolutely No Servery Dishes Beyond This Point". The old rush came on as I passed through the doorway. Hey, that's what they get for having VAFN (vaguely asian food night) all the damn time, right?
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sudden Movements vs. Canadians, America Table, In Pursuit of Knowledge Stopping Off at Stupidity
Day 55
I am conducting a study on Canadian reactions to physical behavior. I make a lot of "sudden movements." When I jerk my head around to see something, or karate chop the air when I am fake killing somebody, or when I nearly fall out of my chair to check out some guy walking out of view Canadians around me get nervous. Hell, if my eye wanders from theirs in conversation they whip around to see what I'm looking at as though someone had said, "Look! It's Elvis And, he's thin and alive!"
I always ask them why they are behaving in this way. Why they look when I look or ask me, "What's going on?" when I am staring off at nothing and they always put it back on me saying that I just whipped my head or eyes around in a "sudden movement." (this makes me want to turn my fake karate chop into a real one) For awhile I thought that maybe it was my fault. Do I have tourettes, I'd wondered? (I do shout out strings of curses without knowing it) then I thought no, that's just what they want me to think, that I'm the problem. Maybe those Canadians are just jealous of my pizazz. Maybe they wished they could make "sudden movements" and dramatic gestures. I think I've finally found my calling, I could hold seminars all over this country regarding the benefits of dramatic self expression. It wouldn't work you say? Wrong! It would work if only because Canadians are too nice to say know.
Tonight at supper I sat at the America table. The captain of the America table is not only Hawaiian and gay he can really spin a good racist joke which means he can clear away Canadians from the dinner table. This point was proven (like it is everyday) tonight when I noticed that a guy was sitting all by himself. One of his friends said he was not feeling well. The Captain and I started to guess what country he was from, trying to decide if he was an ally to the American table or an enemy. After we guessed every Spanish speaking country in the world his friend revealed that he was from Columbia. The Captain said that he liked Mexican people because they cleaned up after him and started to make motions of sweeping the floor. I laughed my half drunk ass off (I would've laughed had I not been drunk). He is too absurd.
The half-Canadian/half-Texan at our table immediately turned even whiter (it was like magic 'cause she was already super white). She then offered to cook for the Captain of our table on the condition that he spend one entire day not cracking any racist jokes. He retorted, "I didn't mean it in a bad way, we give them jobs. What's wrong with that?" She went on in her quest with some bullshit about how being positive can be just as funny. Then she turned to me and said, "Really you should try it for just one day." I looked her dead in her perfect little eyes and said, "I would die if I spent an entire day being 'positive'." She left soon after as the Captain had went on to verbally disparage another ethnic group. And, she was only half Canadian! Just think how humorless and preachy a full-blooded one would've been. We should really put an American flag on the table to fend off these sorts meddling with our merrymaking.
After the dinner fiasco I settled into a game of Trivial Pursuit here is a brief re-cap:
I was the only native English speaker playing and I didn't know the meanings of all the words. Luckily my foreign friends grew up in better school systems, didn't eat a diet of candy and french fries and probably have intelligence, not television dependency in their genes.
There were a ton of geography questions and I found out that I may know the names of European countries I do not know their locations. (Note: Except Germany, I learned that one from the map in the hallway this morning.)
There were no cockroaches around the couches tonight, that I could see. I was too afraid to take apart the couch cushions or move the couches to find out if they were around.
The German guy is not only super good at the game but he yelled, "Yay!" with me in a girly voice like 39 times. If every German were that fun I'd consider moving there (which would be infintely easier considering I now know where it's located).
Anyway, I was the loser, the only chip my pie-shaped token had gathered had gotten there because I had cheated and I still lost because everyone else had actually earned two chips per pie.
But, I got to hear my French neighbor read the questions with his thick accent. And, I beat an Engineer in an impromptu game of Who Can Stack the Most Pie-like Pieces in a Tower, although he may not have been trying, but it doesn't really matter I still won. Yay! (it's not as fun without the German, although I should be upset with him because he wasn't all that impressed that I knew the location of his homeland, oh well, I can learn to forgive, but I'll still hold a grudge for 3 days)
-Canadian Castaway
I am conducting a study on Canadian reactions to physical behavior. I make a lot of "sudden movements." When I jerk my head around to see something, or karate chop the air when I am fake killing somebody, or when I nearly fall out of my chair to check out some guy walking out of view Canadians around me get nervous. Hell, if my eye wanders from theirs in conversation they whip around to see what I'm looking at as though someone had said, "Look! It's Elvis And, he's thin and alive!"
I always ask them why they are behaving in this way. Why they look when I look or ask me, "What's going on?" when I am staring off at nothing and they always put it back on me saying that I just whipped my head or eyes around in a "sudden movement." (this makes me want to turn my fake karate chop into a real one) For awhile I thought that maybe it was my fault. Do I have tourettes, I'd wondered? (I do shout out strings of curses without knowing it) then I thought no, that's just what they want me to think, that I'm the problem. Maybe those Canadians are just jealous of my pizazz. Maybe they wished they could make "sudden movements" and dramatic gestures. I think I've finally found my calling, I could hold seminars all over this country regarding the benefits of dramatic self expression. It wouldn't work you say? Wrong! It would work if only because Canadians are too nice to say know.
Tonight at supper I sat at the America table. The captain of the America table is not only Hawaiian and gay he can really spin a good racist joke which means he can clear away Canadians from the dinner table. This point was proven (like it is everyday) tonight when I noticed that a guy was sitting all by himself. One of his friends said he was not feeling well. The Captain and I started to guess what country he was from, trying to decide if he was an ally to the American table or an enemy. After we guessed every Spanish speaking country in the world his friend revealed that he was from Columbia. The Captain said that he liked Mexican people because they cleaned up after him and started to make motions of sweeping the floor. I laughed my half drunk ass off (I would've laughed had I not been drunk). He is too absurd.
The half-Canadian/half-Texan at our table immediately turned even whiter (it was like magic 'cause she was already super white). She then offered to cook for the Captain of our table on the condition that he spend one entire day not cracking any racist jokes. He retorted, "I didn't mean it in a bad way, we give them jobs. What's wrong with that?" She went on in her quest with some bullshit about how being positive can be just as funny. Then she turned to me and said, "Really you should try it for just one day." I looked her dead in her perfect little eyes and said, "I would die if I spent an entire day being 'positive'." She left soon after as the Captain had went on to verbally disparage another ethnic group. And, she was only half Canadian! Just think how humorless and preachy a full-blooded one would've been. We should really put an American flag on the table to fend off these sorts meddling with our merrymaking.
After the dinner fiasco I settled into a game of Trivial Pursuit here is a brief re-cap:
I was the only native English speaker playing and I didn't know the meanings of all the words. Luckily my foreign friends grew up in better school systems, didn't eat a diet of candy and french fries and probably have intelligence, not television dependency in their genes.
There were a ton of geography questions and I found out that I may know the names of European countries I do not know their locations. (Note: Except Germany, I learned that one from the map in the hallway this morning.)
There were no cockroaches around the couches tonight, that I could see. I was too afraid to take apart the couch cushions or move the couches to find out if they were around.
The German guy is not only super good at the game but he yelled, "Yay!" with me in a girly voice like 39 times. If every German were that fun I'd consider moving there (which would be infintely easier considering I now know where it's located).
Anyway, I was the loser, the only chip my pie-shaped token had gathered had gotten there because I had cheated and I still lost because everyone else had actually earned two chips per pie.
But, I got to hear my French neighbor read the questions with his thick accent. And, I beat an Engineer in an impromptu game of Who Can Stack the Most Pie-like Pieces in a Tower, although he may not have been trying, but it doesn't really matter I still won. Yay! (it's not as fun without the German, although I should be upset with him because he wasn't all that impressed that I knew the location of his homeland, oh well, I can learn to forgive, but I'll still hold a grudge for 3 days)
-Canadian Castaway
I Can't Believe it Myself, a Good Day...Mostly
Day 54
This morning I went to breakfast and discovered it was tater tot day AND the guy who wears a purple sweater sometimes was there, wearing a purple sweater. I smiled to myself thinking, it's gonna be a great day. Then I read my horoscope and it went on and on about how I was going to meet someone today that I would have a profound connection with. Hmm...
So, I dumped my tray, well, accidentally all over the floor, but nothing could stop my good mood. I cheerfully picked up bits of cold eggy mess and tossed them into the hippie compost bin. I popped out the door, slapped on my old school shitphones and turned on my I-pod to the sounds of The Spice Girls. I was all, If you wanna be my lover... I was ecstatic I would've skipped down the sidewalk had I thought my ankles could take it. The music switched to "ABC" and I danced up the four flights of stairs to my department. (Don't worry, I'm not psychotic or on crack yet the snarkiness is coming)
I breezed through the first class of the day actually giving my insights and they (for once) didn't sound like a fourth grader on Skittles. Then, I had a meeting with my professor and she asked me what was the story that I wanted to tell. I looked at her and said, "I don't know." I told her that I was afraid I wouldn't find that story. She told me that I might not. I dragged a little out of the office even though our subject had turned to bookstore chatter, I will never forget not knowing my story. Boo hoo, right?
So, I was all pissy for my next class and my editorial partner looked at me like I had all of sudden acquired Charles Manson's face. I told her what had happened, getting myself all worked up like the main character at the breaking point in a Lifetime movie. She then looked into my eyes, held up her arms and said, "Just relax." I whipped a look at her and instead of grasping her neck like a hard to open jar of pickles I said, "Don't tell me to relax right now, it's just gonna make me more pissed."
Then, she went into this long story about how she had been working, years ago, as a hotel clerk and one night some property was stolen because she had been distracted and yada, yada, blah. And, apparently, the manager showed up and told her, "Just relax, it's kind of funny." She told me that's how I should look at the situation today. What is that a torture tactic? Not only did she reiterate what I had told her not to say she said that my situation was funny. I should really have a screening process for friendships. I wonder if I called the Canadian Authorities (whatever clowns they could be) if they'd let me put a restraining order on myself to stay away from her because next time she says "relax" I don't want to go to prison. What am I saying? This is Canada, they probably don't even have prisons.
My day picked itself back up in the second half of the most boring class ever created, not because of content, but because I happened to look at the bookshelves surrounding the room. The bookshelves contained an odd assortment of books from poetry, to literature, to classics, to criticism--you get the point. Anyhow, I read the titles while the instructor was lecturing and discovered that they would be perfect titles for high brow porno flicks. I made a list of the titles which was awesome because it looked like I was taking a whole bunch of notes, at least I think that's what it looked like. Here's a few of the titles I wrote down, think of the possible plot lines:
After Nora Slammed the Door
Celebrations and Attacks
Felicity's Fool
The Great Railway Bazaar
The Rim of the Park
The Last White Man in Panama
Green Beginning Black Ending
Forever, For Now
Medieval Hour
Where Whales Love to Boogie
A Wizard of Earthsea
Double Danish
The Mennonite Poets
Lindsey and Natasha
*18*
Behind the Door
Women of Smoke
Ritual Slaughter
The Scorched Wood People
Anyway, I finished up my excellent day by watching The Gilmore Girls (yeah, fuck you it's a kick ass show). I guess I found out what I was put here to write about, high brow porn scripts (duh!). But, I am still wondering who it is that I had a special connection with, maybe it was a young and alive version of Michael Jackson...oh, abc easy as one, two, three...
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I went to breakfast and discovered it was tater tot day AND the guy who wears a purple sweater sometimes was there, wearing a purple sweater. I smiled to myself thinking, it's gonna be a great day. Then I read my horoscope and it went on and on about how I was going to meet someone today that I would have a profound connection with. Hmm...
So, I dumped my tray, well, accidentally all over the floor, but nothing could stop my good mood. I cheerfully picked up bits of cold eggy mess and tossed them into the hippie compost bin. I popped out the door, slapped on my old school shitphones and turned on my I-pod to the sounds of The Spice Girls. I was all, If you wanna be my lover... I was ecstatic I would've skipped down the sidewalk had I thought my ankles could take it. The music switched to "ABC" and I danced up the four flights of stairs to my department. (Don't worry, I'm not psychotic or on crack yet the snarkiness is coming)
I breezed through the first class of the day actually giving my insights and they (for once) didn't sound like a fourth grader on Skittles. Then, I had a meeting with my professor and she asked me what was the story that I wanted to tell. I looked at her and said, "I don't know." I told her that I was afraid I wouldn't find that story. She told me that I might not. I dragged a little out of the office even though our subject had turned to bookstore chatter, I will never forget not knowing my story. Boo hoo, right?
So, I was all pissy for my next class and my editorial partner looked at me like I had all of sudden acquired Charles Manson's face. I told her what had happened, getting myself all worked up like the main character at the breaking point in a Lifetime movie. She then looked into my eyes, held up her arms and said, "Just relax." I whipped a look at her and instead of grasping her neck like a hard to open jar of pickles I said, "Don't tell me to relax right now, it's just gonna make me more pissed."
Then, she went into this long story about how she had been working, years ago, as a hotel clerk and one night some property was stolen because she had been distracted and yada, yada, blah. And, apparently, the manager showed up and told her, "Just relax, it's kind of funny." She told me that's how I should look at the situation today. What is that a torture tactic? Not only did she reiterate what I had told her not to say she said that my situation was funny. I should really have a screening process for friendships. I wonder if I called the Canadian Authorities (whatever clowns they could be) if they'd let me put a restraining order on myself to stay away from her because next time she says "relax" I don't want to go to prison. What am I saying? This is Canada, they probably don't even have prisons.
My day picked itself back up in the second half of the most boring class ever created, not because of content, but because I happened to look at the bookshelves surrounding the room. The bookshelves contained an odd assortment of books from poetry, to literature, to classics, to criticism--you get the point. Anyhow, I read the titles while the instructor was lecturing and discovered that they would be perfect titles for high brow porno flicks. I made a list of the titles which was awesome because it looked like I was taking a whole bunch of notes, at least I think that's what it looked like. Here's a few of the titles I wrote down, think of the possible plot lines:
After Nora Slammed the Door
Celebrations and Attacks
Felicity's Fool
The Great Railway Bazaar
The Rim of the Park
The Last White Man in Panama
Green Beginning Black Ending
Forever, For Now
Medieval Hour
Where Whales Love to Boogie
A Wizard of Earthsea
Double Danish
The Mennonite Poets
Lindsey and Natasha
*18*
Behind the Door
Women of Smoke
Ritual Slaughter
The Scorched Wood People
Anyway, I finished up my excellent day by watching The Gilmore Girls (yeah, fuck you it's a kick ass show). I guess I found out what I was put here to write about, high brow porn scripts (duh!). But, I am still wondering who it is that I had a special connection with, maybe it was a young and alive version of Michael Jackson...oh, abc easy as one, two, three...
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Invaders, The Dinner Conversation That Made Me Wish I Was Anorexic So I Wouldn't Have to Eat Here, Zac!!!, Happy Thoughts
Day 53
After last night's bender I set about today to get things accomplished. I worked super hard and wrote stuff that doesn't mean anything. After the Komodo coffee started to wear off I called my mother. As I was talking to her I was making my bed when I heard my mini blinds rattle. My window was open but the blinds were down. I spun around expecting to see a criminal coming in to steal my beloved boyfriend (computer) what I saw will wake me up at 4 am for years to come. I saw a hand. It had long talon-like nails and was furry and black in color and separating the blinds. I could see eyes looking at me.
I screamed into my phone startling my mother who had a coughing fit. The hand and eyes retreated at my squeal. Did I mention that my window is only a foot wide and a foot high. It was a squirrel, not a friendly ninja squirrel but a black bandit invader type. My heart rate calmed and my mother's coughing turned to laughter. I waited to see which of my fellow residents would come rushing to my rescue, running in saying, "Are you alright? I heard a scream." No one came and my mother kept laughing.
Supper was worse than the invasion. I sat a table containing six men, including the guy who told me once, "maybe college isn't for you." Why am I such a moron? There were at least three completely empty tables in the back I could've sat at. Well, I saw my alleged movie buff friend there (not to say he isn't a douche) and sometimes we play a game where he sings me a song and I guess the movie it came from. But today the college-isn't-for-you guy was talking with movie guy and he asked movie guy if he'd seen High Fidelity and movie guy grinned in a I'm-such-an-ass way and said, "No." I dropped my fork with the giant unidentifiable bean still attached to it and said to movie guy, "I should bring a notebook with me to write down all of the reasons I hate you. I'm starting to lose track." He thought I was joking. ; )
After me and my beans went back to suppering the you-aren't-cut-out-for-college guy said to me, "I went to that bar you work at and had a bad experience." He then went into great detail and show about how he went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic and had complained about the tonic and the bartenders ignored him and yada yada, boring, blah...
I'm not really sure what he wanted from me. To apologize? To confirm that he was right? To disparage my co-workers? To buy him a drink? Luckily, someone else who works at the pub came and sat down (God, I'm so glad he moved in here if he didn't have a girlfriend in France that he's gonna be with in 10 years I would ask him to marry me and sire my children). So, I tried to talk to my seatmate who was in a Statistics-induced coma (she didn't even get pissed off when I called her a "space cadet") in an attempt to not turn to the college guy and say, "You know I was there when your cocktail fiasco went down and we had a great time making fun out of what a pompous ass you were whining about your cheap gin and tonic. Thanks for that, oh and by the way we don't really care that you aren't coming back, in fact, since we now know this is true, I will be planning a party to celebrate never having to hear you bitch about your cocktail ever again."
The high point of my day came when I told some guys to take apart a blue ray player, and they did and on the inside next to Chinese characters was a sign that said to not open the compartment because it could result in exposure to laser radiation. We opened it. Anyway, after that we watched "17 Again" which was 1,000 times more awesome than I could've imagined. Just the close-ups of Zac Efron's eyes it is worth watching, but the story line and characters and dialogue blew my mind.
A lot of times when someone becomes a famous screenwriter (at least in the U.S.) they are interviewed and asked what made them want to become screenwriters and a lot of the time they say they saw a movie that "changed their life" and sometimes they say that they saw a movie and thought, "Gee, I could do that." (See Kevin Smith and Slackers references). I wish "17 Again" was the movie that I watched that made me say, "Gee, I could do that." But what it really made me say was, "Gee, I'll never be able to write something that amazing why bother trying." I looked up at the night sky and positive re-enforcement came racing back, "No, you can't think like that you need to devote your life to writing something at least as good as that and believe that it's possible." If I really bought into that crap my life would be so much easier. Too bad there isn't an optimism pill I can take to--wait, there is I think it's called Xanax. Hmm....
Anyway, I have to google image Zac Efron for a few hours and then get some sleep.
-Canadian Castaway
Tip: If you happen to eat an orange while watching youttube videos and not realize that the juice from it has dripped and dried all over your keyboard using your own spit to clean it up will not help especially if you have been consuming peanut butter before you lick your computer.
After last night's bender I set about today to get things accomplished. I worked super hard and wrote stuff that doesn't mean anything. After the Komodo coffee started to wear off I called my mother. As I was talking to her I was making my bed when I heard my mini blinds rattle. My window was open but the blinds were down. I spun around expecting to see a criminal coming in to steal my beloved boyfriend (computer) what I saw will wake me up at 4 am for years to come. I saw a hand. It had long talon-like nails and was furry and black in color and separating the blinds. I could see eyes looking at me.
I screamed into my phone startling my mother who had a coughing fit. The hand and eyes retreated at my squeal. Did I mention that my window is only a foot wide and a foot high. It was a squirrel, not a friendly ninja squirrel but a black bandit invader type. My heart rate calmed and my mother's coughing turned to laughter. I waited to see which of my fellow residents would come rushing to my rescue, running in saying, "Are you alright? I heard a scream." No one came and my mother kept laughing.
Supper was worse than the invasion. I sat a table containing six men, including the guy who told me once, "maybe college isn't for you." Why am I such a moron? There were at least three completely empty tables in the back I could've sat at. Well, I saw my alleged movie buff friend there (not to say he isn't a douche) and sometimes we play a game where he sings me a song and I guess the movie it came from. But today the college-isn't-for-you guy was talking with movie guy and he asked movie guy if he'd seen High Fidelity and movie guy grinned in a I'm-such-an-ass way and said, "No." I dropped my fork with the giant unidentifiable bean still attached to it and said to movie guy, "I should bring a notebook with me to write down all of the reasons I hate you. I'm starting to lose track." He thought I was joking. ; )
After me and my beans went back to suppering the you-aren't-cut-out-for-college guy said to me, "I went to that bar you work at and had a bad experience." He then went into great detail and show about how he went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic and had complained about the tonic and the bartenders ignored him and yada yada, boring, blah...
I'm not really sure what he wanted from me. To apologize? To confirm that he was right? To disparage my co-workers? To buy him a drink? Luckily, someone else who works at the pub came and sat down (God, I'm so glad he moved in here if he didn't have a girlfriend in France that he's gonna be with in 10 years I would ask him to marry me and sire my children). So, I tried to talk to my seatmate who was in a Statistics-induced coma (she didn't even get pissed off when I called her a "space cadet") in an attempt to not turn to the college guy and say, "You know I was there when your cocktail fiasco went down and we had a great time making fun out of what a pompous ass you were whining about your cheap gin and tonic. Thanks for that, oh and by the way we don't really care that you aren't coming back, in fact, since we now know this is true, I will be planning a party to celebrate never having to hear you bitch about your cocktail ever again."
The high point of my day came when I told some guys to take apart a blue ray player, and they did and on the inside next to Chinese characters was a sign that said to not open the compartment because it could result in exposure to laser radiation. We opened it. Anyway, after that we watched "17 Again" which was 1,000 times more awesome than I could've imagined. Just the close-ups of Zac Efron's eyes it is worth watching, but the story line and characters and dialogue blew my mind.
A lot of times when someone becomes a famous screenwriter (at least in the U.S.) they are interviewed and asked what made them want to become screenwriters and a lot of the time they say they saw a movie that "changed their life" and sometimes they say that they saw a movie and thought, "Gee, I could do that." (See Kevin Smith and Slackers references). I wish "17 Again" was the movie that I watched that made me say, "Gee, I could do that." But what it really made me say was, "Gee, I'll never be able to write something that amazing why bother trying." I looked up at the night sky and positive re-enforcement came racing back, "No, you can't think like that you need to devote your life to writing something at least as good as that and believe that it's possible." If I really bought into that crap my life would be so much easier. Too bad there isn't an optimism pill I can take to--wait, there is I think it's called Xanax. Hmm....
Anyway, I have to google image Zac Efron for a few hours and then get some sleep.
-Canadian Castaway
Tip: If you happen to eat an orange while watching youttube videos and not realize that the juice from it has dripped and dried all over your keyboard using your own spit to clean it up will not help especially if you have been consuming peanut butter before you lick your computer.
It's 4 am and I Have a Lot of Fragments
Day 52
My sincerest apologies for the shortness of this blog I was at a party that involved Gin and Wii. It is now 4 am so I will just do a brief re-cap here goes:
When we were waiting for a bus downtown (after walking 42.8 kilometers because no bus in this city runs past midnight because they all turn into pumpkins and their drivers into mice) a woman at the stop with us said in a monotone voice, "there is a guy across the street without any pants or underwear on." And there he was, his friends taking photos all the while looking down the street at a giant woman cop who hadn't noticed the half naked guy and didn't notice him until he grabbed a road cone and stuck it over his dick and stood out in the street waving at cars. The lady cop finally noticed him and her voice carried faintly across the street, "Put your pants on."
I finally saw the benefits of living in a community of hi-rise buildings. If you live in a neighborhood of these buildings and possess a semi-decent pair of binoculars you don't have to spend any money at all on entertainment. There is nothing more fun than peeping into over a hundred windows and looking for people having sex...well, it would probably have been more fun had I caught anyone actually having sex.
Fun Fact: Apparently, there are places where people wrestle each other in a pit of K-Y jelly.
Today I made a cake and finally caught on to how exhilarating baking can be. When you see the finished product and it doesn't look all that fucked up AND it smells good it can be a blast. I bet it's even more amazing when instead of using a cake mix and a South African assistant you make something from scratch and do it by yourself. But, you gotta be realistic.
I learned today that "The Joy of Cooking" includes not only recipes of how to cook squirrel meat, but a detailed description of how to clean them AND accompanying illustrations that show you exactly where to slice and how to step on it's tail when you are pulling it apart. Also, it is best to try and catch a possum and feed it milk and cereals for 10 days and then kill it, although I am not exactly sure why.
How badly are you addicted to sweets when you place an international call to a candystore owner to chat about odd Canadian candy bars and then beg him to send you a care package?
At the party tonight there was a guy who is allergic to nuts and a girl who can't eat gluten. I knew these things but why did I keep offering the guy my pecan-ish cake and the girl bread with brie? I know I got a little messed up but that may be either deep maliciousness or dementia, it's so hard to tell which.
I really wanted to take a sneak photo of my bodyguard pissing in the bushes. Maybe I wanted to get back at him because some guy was feeling him up on the bus and I got jealous. My bodyguard and I walked in the rain today and he bitched and moaned about how his clothes were getting wet and his hair was getting messed up. When we finally got out of the rain he started drying his hair with napkins. Is this occasion to be freaked out or fascinated?
What I don't like about Canada exhibit 21: Tonight I got a huge lecture from a Canadian about how people in the U.S. don't recycle. What the hell, right? Just because we don't' have recycling containers attached to our public trash bins (it's not like there is ever recycling in them, I check) doesn't mean we don't recycle.
More tomorrow...
-Canadian Castaway
My sincerest apologies for the shortness of this blog I was at a party that involved Gin and Wii. It is now 4 am so I will just do a brief re-cap here goes:
When we were waiting for a bus downtown (after walking 42.8 kilometers because no bus in this city runs past midnight because they all turn into pumpkins and their drivers into mice) a woman at the stop with us said in a monotone voice, "there is a guy across the street without any pants or underwear on." And there he was, his friends taking photos all the while looking down the street at a giant woman cop who hadn't noticed the half naked guy and didn't notice him until he grabbed a road cone and stuck it over his dick and stood out in the street waving at cars. The lady cop finally noticed him and her voice carried faintly across the street, "Put your pants on."
I finally saw the benefits of living in a community of hi-rise buildings. If you live in a neighborhood of these buildings and possess a semi-decent pair of binoculars you don't have to spend any money at all on entertainment. There is nothing more fun than peeping into over a hundred windows and looking for people having sex...well, it would probably have been more fun had I caught anyone actually having sex.
Fun Fact: Apparently, there are places where people wrestle each other in a pit of K-Y jelly.
Today I made a cake and finally caught on to how exhilarating baking can be. When you see the finished product and it doesn't look all that fucked up AND it smells good it can be a blast. I bet it's even more amazing when instead of using a cake mix and a South African assistant you make something from scratch and do it by yourself. But, you gotta be realistic.
I learned today that "The Joy of Cooking" includes not only recipes of how to cook squirrel meat, but a detailed description of how to clean them AND accompanying illustrations that show you exactly where to slice and how to step on it's tail when you are pulling it apart. Also, it is best to try and catch a possum and feed it milk and cereals for 10 days and then kill it, although I am not exactly sure why.
How badly are you addicted to sweets when you place an international call to a candystore owner to chat about odd Canadian candy bars and then beg him to send you a care package?
At the party tonight there was a guy who is allergic to nuts and a girl who can't eat gluten. I knew these things but why did I keep offering the guy my pecan-ish cake and the girl bread with brie? I know I got a little messed up but that may be either deep maliciousness or dementia, it's so hard to tell which.
I really wanted to take a sneak photo of my bodyguard pissing in the bushes. Maybe I wanted to get back at him because some guy was feeling him up on the bus and I got jealous. My bodyguard and I walked in the rain today and he bitched and moaned about how his clothes were getting wet and his hair was getting messed up. When we finally got out of the rain he started drying his hair with napkins. Is this occasion to be freaked out or fascinated?
What I don't like about Canada exhibit 21: Tonight I got a huge lecture from a Canadian about how people in the U.S. don't recycle. What the hell, right? Just because we don't' have recycling containers attached to our public trash bins (it's not like there is ever recycling in them, I check) doesn't mean we don't recycle.
More tomorrow...
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Breakfast Mayhem, Ice Age, Wine and Cheese, Comedy Central I Love You
Day 51
This morning I ate eggs and sat with a group of people who like to hold game nights and not invite everyone, in other words, a clique. These people aren't (at least outwardly) assholes, except when you walk by them playing their brainy little board games and they look at you like you are about to make a joke about their grandmother that died yesterday. Anyway, at breakfast they were having a lively debate over some detail of the exclusive game they had played the night before. And one of them turned to me and asked, "You know what I mean, right?" I took my opportunity. "Actually, I would know what you mean if you ever invited me to play the game with you guys." Everyone shut up, their smiles faded and their eyes suddenly became interested at the toast in front of them.
Eventually, the girl I had made my remark to said, "Oh well, the games can only have so many players. You should, ahh, let us know which game you are ahh--interested in and if people don't show up or we have room for you we'll send you an email."
"Yeah, you know I'm pretty busy so I don't think I'll be waiting around for the chance that you guys might let me play your games." She tried to muster a laugh as though it were a joke. (and, it was, sort of) All of this wonderful drama and eggs, I am a lucky girl. (hold on, I gotta check my email, maybe they want me to hang out with them) If we're in high school again I'd like to know cause this time around I'm gonna try and sleep with a jock and dye my hair purple with pink streaks in it and tell my parents to, "Fuck off." (it was so fun the first time around)
I finally watched the movie Ice Age tonight and it will probably bother me for days, maybe weeks. It could've been the wine and the interruptions by creepy men stopping by to watch (they walked in the door, each one saying, "Ice Age!") but there were just a few things that weren't right about it, here is a very brief list:
1. If a wholly mammoth could talk would it really sound like Ray Romano? If the answer is yes then its predators would have a lot more to fear than being kabob-ed by a tusk.
2. The watermelon scene: a. would they really know how to spike a watermelon in the end zone. b. Given the baby's age and time period of existence would it really know how to throw up its arms in a touchdown signal? c. Does anybody even care that football had not yet been invented. (I know you are supposed to suspend your disbelief but come on)
3. Besides the watermelon scene and the opening scene nobody really eats anything. Isn't that a little odd?
4. Where the fuck did that squirrel get that nut? And, at the end when he thaws out miraculously alive does anyone remember that he popped his nut like popcorn (even though it was an acorn)? Don't tell me he got another nut. From where? Under the ice?
5. And this one really will make me stay up late at night clawing the sheets, why the hell do they call the kid "Squirt"? Really, squirt? I think I'm gonna puke up my corn nuts.
(and I'm not gonna even mention the fact that a saber-toothed tiger would never go against his fellow saber-tooths, EVER. And, don't tell me the damn overgrown cat wouldn't at least eat the sloth.)
Tonight I had to bartend a wine and cheese function dealing with lectures on the homeless. A dude with glasses and a corduroy blazer came up and asked for a beer. I told him that we only had wine and he sneered and remarked that this shouldn't be a fancy party with wine and cheese when they are talking about the homeless. I wish I would've told him that it really doesn't matter because fancy-ass scholars wearing designer glasses and Kenneth Coles really aren't going to be out there doing something for the homeless they are really only a conversation topic so it really doesn't matter what they serve at their little feel good party. Instead I smiled at him as though I found him humorous and said, "Red or white?".
I have finally kicked my facebook addiction. I replaced it with a watching The Sarah Silverman Program and Strangers With Candy addiction. My only fear now is that I think I am the characters. It's not like I can go around throwing off Jewish jokes or saying Jerri Blankian things like, "Cancer? That's hilarious!" Or could I? Perhaps I'd better make my bodyguard take up Jujutsu and move into my closet. He keeps threatening me with "a shiv to your side" all the time lately I don't know how kindly he'd take to my suggestions. I could submit them in written form on facebook, if I could ever stop watching Sarah Silverman shooting turtles named "Toot".
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I ate eggs and sat with a group of people who like to hold game nights and not invite everyone, in other words, a clique. These people aren't (at least outwardly) assholes, except when you walk by them playing their brainy little board games and they look at you like you are about to make a joke about their grandmother that died yesterday. Anyway, at breakfast they were having a lively debate over some detail of the exclusive game they had played the night before. And one of them turned to me and asked, "You know what I mean, right?" I took my opportunity. "Actually, I would know what you mean if you ever invited me to play the game with you guys." Everyone shut up, their smiles faded and their eyes suddenly became interested at the toast in front of them.
Eventually, the girl I had made my remark to said, "Oh well, the games can only have so many players. You should, ahh, let us know which game you are ahh--interested in and if people don't show up or we have room for you we'll send you an email."
"Yeah, you know I'm pretty busy so I don't think I'll be waiting around for the chance that you guys might let me play your games." She tried to muster a laugh as though it were a joke. (and, it was, sort of) All of this wonderful drama and eggs, I am a lucky girl. (hold on, I gotta check my email, maybe they want me to hang out with them) If we're in high school again I'd like to know cause this time around I'm gonna try and sleep with a jock and dye my hair purple with pink streaks in it and tell my parents to, "Fuck off." (it was so fun the first time around)
I finally watched the movie Ice Age tonight and it will probably bother me for days, maybe weeks. It could've been the wine and the interruptions by creepy men stopping by to watch (they walked in the door, each one saying, "Ice Age!") but there were just a few things that weren't right about it, here is a very brief list:
1. If a wholly mammoth could talk would it really sound like Ray Romano? If the answer is yes then its predators would have a lot more to fear than being kabob-ed by a tusk.
2. The watermelon scene: a. would they really know how to spike a watermelon in the end zone. b. Given the baby's age and time period of existence would it really know how to throw up its arms in a touchdown signal? c. Does anybody even care that football had not yet been invented. (I know you are supposed to suspend your disbelief but come on)
3. Besides the watermelon scene and the opening scene nobody really eats anything. Isn't that a little odd?
4. Where the fuck did that squirrel get that nut? And, at the end when he thaws out miraculously alive does anyone remember that he popped his nut like popcorn (even though it was an acorn)? Don't tell me he got another nut. From where? Under the ice?
5. And this one really will make me stay up late at night clawing the sheets, why the hell do they call the kid "Squirt"? Really, squirt? I think I'm gonna puke up my corn nuts.
(and I'm not gonna even mention the fact that a saber-toothed tiger would never go against his fellow saber-tooths, EVER. And, don't tell me the damn overgrown cat wouldn't at least eat the sloth.)
Tonight I had to bartend a wine and cheese function dealing with lectures on the homeless. A dude with glasses and a corduroy blazer came up and asked for a beer. I told him that we only had wine and he sneered and remarked that this shouldn't be a fancy party with wine and cheese when they are talking about the homeless. I wish I would've told him that it really doesn't matter because fancy-ass scholars wearing designer glasses and Kenneth Coles really aren't going to be out there doing something for the homeless they are really only a conversation topic so it really doesn't matter what they serve at their little feel good party. Instead I smiled at him as though I found him humorous and said, "Red or white?".
I have finally kicked my facebook addiction. I replaced it with a watching The Sarah Silverman Program and Strangers With Candy addiction. My only fear now is that I think I am the characters. It's not like I can go around throwing off Jewish jokes or saying Jerri Blankian things like, "Cancer? That's hilarious!" Or could I? Perhaps I'd better make my bodyguard take up Jujutsu and move into my closet. He keeps threatening me with "a shiv to your side" all the time lately I don't know how kindly he'd take to my suggestions. I could submit them in written form on facebook, if I could ever stop watching Sarah Silverman shooting turtles named "Toot".
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, October 16, 2009
"All you have to do is...", Validation, Cake, Top Love Making List, Germans Hate Me
Day 50
This morning I dragged my ass out of bed and trudged over to breakfast. I could've slept in and missed out on breakfast but I have found that I am becoming more like my father everyday his voice echos in my own when I say to myself, "Well, if I am gonna pay for it I should be eating it."
Besides, breakfast here can be pretty fun with everyone's varying degrees of awakedness (is that a fucking word? I hope not). It can be so much fun to mess with people, their energy levels make them vulnerable. It is not fun when the person being poked at is you. (you think knowing this would stop me from being a jerk...)
This morning my amiga (or so I thought, well, I did fall in love with her boyfriend, but anyway) told me that it was super easy to lose weight and "change" my body. Translation: Hey fat girl quit your bitching and do something about it. She turned to me and said, "All you have to do is go to the gym 7 days a week for an hour and a half per day and when you get hungry you should have a protein shake, you know, the powder stuff--anyway, you have three of those a day and you'd be surprised at how fast the weight would come off. And, you don't eat sugar." Gee, let me get right on top of that, I thought, wanting to sugar my yogurt but fearing her wrath. Maybe I should find a different breakfast table.
So, in the name of true procrastination (or is it addiction?) I was on facebook all morning. I mean I was conducting some research for my thesis...whatever, the point is that I was stalking people online. (Really, what else is there to do on a computer besides stalk people and look at porn and bid on shitty toys from your childhood that you don't need) I found that many of my friends were posting lists of the things they'd done with their mornings. What is the motivation behind this? Are these so-called friends of my arrogant enough to think that people actually care? (I know, I read the shit, but it doesn't mean I care) Or, do they just write these updates to validate their existence, to prove to themselves that they do stuff. Or, (my favorite) do they just do these things so that they can write updates on facebook? It's not like I can ask them though cause you know, they are busy people doing stuff.
After the lecture at breakfast a friend of mine and I went out for her birthday. Well, we went out specifically for cake. This friend of mine is I wouldn't say a fat girl but she is not a stick thin supermodel either. Anyway, she gets a piece of cake and I get some gelato and we commiserate about how hard it is to find clothes that are big enough to fit us while we stuff our faces with chocolate. Now that's living (or denial, or a crutch, or a cocked up buddy system).
I was told by a couple people I know that people they know (stay with me) quit their jobs at the bar I currently work at because of sexual comments. Tonight the head cook came up to me and told me that he read a list once of the best sexual partners based on country of origin. He told me that the ethnicity of the guy I currently (well, one of them) am infatuated with ranked very low. Noting that they guys of that race were bad in bed and particularly sweaty. He then recalled the top countries of origin for magnificent sexual partners like Italy, France, Brazil, the U.S. (ranked 7th) and others. Now, I wonder if the people who quit their jobs based on sexual comments didn't realize that the cook is simply a wannabe sex ed teacher here to educate. I am not yet sure how accurate his teachings are but I am currently working on field tests and will get back to you just as soon as I am finished fucking around the world and posting all about it on my facebook page.
What the hell is wrong with Germans? Every time I encounter a German in Canada they are offended by what I say. Sometimes I am not even being rude. There was this one time I was gonna read aloud from a letter I received in the mail and the German next to me started saying, "No, no too much, too much." Tonight I met a friend of a friend who just so happened to be German. She didn't get any of my jokes AND she got pissed at me even though I specifically said, "Don' t get pissed at me." When I was joking around with another friend who was making fun of me my comeback to his teasings was, "What? What did you say? I can't understand you, why don't you learn English." He laughed and the German left the table. All I know is that if you happen to run into a German or (Bosnian) in Canada don't make any jokes and don't expect them to enjoy your company just get the hell outta there.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I dragged my ass out of bed and trudged over to breakfast. I could've slept in and missed out on breakfast but I have found that I am becoming more like my father everyday his voice echos in my own when I say to myself, "Well, if I am gonna pay for it I should be eating it."
Besides, breakfast here can be pretty fun with everyone's varying degrees of awakedness (is that a fucking word? I hope not). It can be so much fun to mess with people, their energy levels make them vulnerable. It is not fun when the person being poked at is you. (you think knowing this would stop me from being a jerk...)
This morning my amiga (or so I thought, well, I did fall in love with her boyfriend, but anyway) told me that it was super easy to lose weight and "change" my body. Translation: Hey fat girl quit your bitching and do something about it. She turned to me and said, "All you have to do is go to the gym 7 days a week for an hour and a half per day and when you get hungry you should have a protein shake, you know, the powder stuff--anyway, you have three of those a day and you'd be surprised at how fast the weight would come off. And, you don't eat sugar." Gee, let me get right on top of that, I thought, wanting to sugar my yogurt but fearing her wrath. Maybe I should find a different breakfast table.
So, in the name of true procrastination (or is it addiction?) I was on facebook all morning. I mean I was conducting some research for my thesis...whatever, the point is that I was stalking people online. (Really, what else is there to do on a computer besides stalk people and look at porn and bid on shitty toys from your childhood that you don't need) I found that many of my friends were posting lists of the things they'd done with their mornings. What is the motivation behind this? Are these so-called friends of my arrogant enough to think that people actually care? (I know, I read the shit, but it doesn't mean I care) Or, do they just write these updates to validate their existence, to prove to themselves that they do stuff. Or, (my favorite) do they just do these things so that they can write updates on facebook? It's not like I can ask them though cause you know, they are busy people doing stuff.
After the lecture at breakfast a friend of mine and I went out for her birthday. Well, we went out specifically for cake. This friend of mine is I wouldn't say a fat girl but she is not a stick thin supermodel either. Anyway, she gets a piece of cake and I get some gelato and we commiserate about how hard it is to find clothes that are big enough to fit us while we stuff our faces with chocolate. Now that's living (or denial, or a crutch, or a cocked up buddy system).
I was told by a couple people I know that people they know (stay with me) quit their jobs at the bar I currently work at because of sexual comments. Tonight the head cook came up to me and told me that he read a list once of the best sexual partners based on country of origin. He told me that the ethnicity of the guy I currently (well, one of them) am infatuated with ranked very low. Noting that they guys of that race were bad in bed and particularly sweaty. He then recalled the top countries of origin for magnificent sexual partners like Italy, France, Brazil, the U.S. (ranked 7th) and others. Now, I wonder if the people who quit their jobs based on sexual comments didn't realize that the cook is simply a wannabe sex ed teacher here to educate. I am not yet sure how accurate his teachings are but I am currently working on field tests and will get back to you just as soon as I am finished fucking around the world and posting all about it on my facebook page.
What the hell is wrong with Germans? Every time I encounter a German in Canada they are offended by what I say. Sometimes I am not even being rude. There was this one time I was gonna read aloud from a letter I received in the mail and the German next to me started saying, "No, no too much, too much." Tonight I met a friend of a friend who just so happened to be German. She didn't get any of my jokes AND she got pissed at me even though I specifically said, "Don' t get pissed at me." When I was joking around with another friend who was making fun of me my comeback to his teasings was, "What? What did you say? I can't understand you, why don't you learn English." He laughed and the German left the table. All I know is that if you happen to run into a German or (Bosnian) in Canada don't make any jokes and don't expect them to enjoy your company just get the hell outta there.
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Overachievers, Wanna-bes, Manifestos and Drew
Day 49
At noon today I went to hear important people talk about success. First there was an acquiring fiction editor for Canada's top literary press. He was a slight man who talked about how getting a glamorous job hurts your writing. I can dig on that. But he went on to say that we should get accountants and invest our money. That is a giant leap considering that we are grad students in a writing program where would we have money? (oh yes in our treasure chests in the lowest decks of our pirate ships, ha!) Pretty sure I can live without an accountant but thanks for reminding me that I am broke.
The next guy was a writer who looked like an old golden retriever except that he had silver hair and he wasn't a dog. Anyway, he told the marvelous very American tale about how everyone thought he'd never make it as a writer and now he has been one for 30 years. He told us that there were internships available that paid like 600 to 700 bucks a week and then immediately dismissed the money as, "not much". If I had that kind of money right now I would certainly need an accountant. I wouldn't mind fetching lattes and lunches, naked for that kind of money.
We all loved the golden retriever man and he opened up the floor for questions. I raised a hand and asked him about his daily writing routine, as it had been something the accountant-pusher wanted us to have. Golden retriever went on about how his usual routine is around 4 to 5 hours per day but sometimes he writes as many as 12 or 14. Great, another let down. No wonder I am not a better writer I only put in like an hour a day and that's including the creation of my daily bitchings on this damned blog. Shit, I'll never make it. Oh well, at least I won't have to find the perfect accountant.
So, after hearing the important people speak I went out and bought 20 bucks worth of coffee (I had to buy it, it had "Komodo Dragon" in the title) and popped up a message on facebook stating that I was on "lock down" to which I got three quick responses asking if I was in jail and such and then I got to it, to starting my new writing routine that is. Well, I made coffee and ate brie for quite sometime and checked my emails and read yahoo.ca news stuff about paintings and then I was ready to write. Well sort of, I couldn't think of a story so I wrote a manifesto. I took art class once it seems like all of the crazies wrote manifestos like Bauhausians and Dadaists. (I never really understood their work, but what the hell). They wrote edgy, badass declarations of their beliefs that actually meant something (at least at the time to a few delusional people who needed to be part of a freaky group to produce 'art').
My manifesto was scrawled on a page and a half of notebook paper with curly edges. I whipped it up in a few minutes and leaned back in my chair, proud, like I had done something official and badass. I even typed it up and taped it to my wall. I look at it now and it's flowery, hopeful statements look like something a psychiatrist would make a patient write down when they are being taught to believe in themselves. (At least I didn't have to pay a psychiatrist, suckers, who's crazy now?) Here a few of my phrases to inspire you with:
"I am here to re-discover who I am and what I want."
"I am here to exercise and gain patience."
"I will remember every day how lucky I am to be here."
And my favorite:
"I will have faith that everything will be at minimum, okay. And hold fast to dedication and tenacity and the idea that belief in yourself is all you need, but know that it will be difficult and take time."
What the fuck was that? That was certainly not badass. Maybe I should send it to "O" magazine. Well, at least I will be able to write self help books for a living. I don't know if you've noticed but the self help section in bookstores is always expanding (not that I would know). If you know me at all or read this drivel-filled blog you'll know how demented I can be, just think on that for a minute...are these the kinds of people who write self help books? Freaky.
What the hell is up with Drew Barrymore? Every successive movie I see with her in it she is getting skinnier. It makes me want to eat a box of another box of maple leaf cookies or throw up the last one I ate. Well, to be honest, I just saw "Music and Lyrics" tonight and I can't remember another movie besides "Never Been Kissed" that I've seen her in lately. But, while I'm on the subject, I wonder what her new movie "Grey Gardens" is gonna be like. The original film, like anyone has ever wasted damn near 4 hours of their lives watching that shit besides me and a few other lonely masochists, is like listening to three wailing babies on a cross continental flight. I wonder if Drew Barrymore even sat through the entire thing. Nah, she probably rode her Elliptical machine through 30 minutes of it and then did 4,000 crunches while sipping cucumber water and flipped to Entertainment Tonight. I know what you're thinking, 'Oh, she's just jealous she just wants to be as thin as Drew.' Kind of true but I'd really rather Drew get fat.
-Canadian Castaway
At noon today I went to hear important people talk about success. First there was an acquiring fiction editor for Canada's top literary press. He was a slight man who talked about how getting a glamorous job hurts your writing. I can dig on that. But he went on to say that we should get accountants and invest our money. That is a giant leap considering that we are grad students in a writing program where would we have money? (oh yes in our treasure chests in the lowest decks of our pirate ships, ha!) Pretty sure I can live without an accountant but thanks for reminding me that I am broke.
The next guy was a writer who looked like an old golden retriever except that he had silver hair and he wasn't a dog. Anyway, he told the marvelous very American tale about how everyone thought he'd never make it as a writer and now he has been one for 30 years. He told us that there were internships available that paid like 600 to 700 bucks a week and then immediately dismissed the money as, "not much". If I had that kind of money right now I would certainly need an accountant. I wouldn't mind fetching lattes and lunches, naked for that kind of money.
We all loved the golden retriever man and he opened up the floor for questions. I raised a hand and asked him about his daily writing routine, as it had been something the accountant-pusher wanted us to have. Golden retriever went on about how his usual routine is around 4 to 5 hours per day but sometimes he writes as many as 12 or 14. Great, another let down. No wonder I am not a better writer I only put in like an hour a day and that's including the creation of my daily bitchings on this damned blog. Shit, I'll never make it. Oh well, at least I won't have to find the perfect accountant.
So, after hearing the important people speak I went out and bought 20 bucks worth of coffee (I had to buy it, it had "Komodo Dragon" in the title) and popped up a message on facebook stating that I was on "lock down" to which I got three quick responses asking if I was in jail and such and then I got to it, to starting my new writing routine that is. Well, I made coffee and ate brie for quite sometime and checked my emails and read yahoo.ca news stuff about paintings and then I was ready to write. Well sort of, I couldn't think of a story so I wrote a manifesto. I took art class once it seems like all of the crazies wrote manifestos like Bauhausians and Dadaists. (I never really understood their work, but what the hell). They wrote edgy, badass declarations of their beliefs that actually meant something (at least at the time to a few delusional people who needed to be part of a freaky group to produce 'art').
My manifesto was scrawled on a page and a half of notebook paper with curly edges. I whipped it up in a few minutes and leaned back in my chair, proud, like I had done something official and badass. I even typed it up and taped it to my wall. I look at it now and it's flowery, hopeful statements look like something a psychiatrist would make a patient write down when they are being taught to believe in themselves. (At least I didn't have to pay a psychiatrist, suckers, who's crazy now?) Here a few of my phrases to inspire you with:
"I am here to re-discover who I am and what I want."
"I am here to exercise and gain patience."
"I will remember every day how lucky I am to be here."
And my favorite:
"I will have faith that everything will be at minimum, okay. And hold fast to dedication and tenacity and the idea that belief in yourself is all you need, but know that it will be difficult and take time."
What the fuck was that? That was certainly not badass. Maybe I should send it to "O" magazine. Well, at least I will be able to write self help books for a living. I don't know if you've noticed but the self help section in bookstores is always expanding (not that I would know). If you know me at all or read this drivel-filled blog you'll know how demented I can be, just think on that for a minute...are these the kinds of people who write self help books? Freaky.
What the hell is up with Drew Barrymore? Every successive movie I see with her in it she is getting skinnier. It makes me want to eat a box of another box of maple leaf cookies or throw up the last one I ate. Well, to be honest, I just saw "Music and Lyrics" tonight and I can't remember another movie besides "Never Been Kissed" that I've seen her in lately. But, while I'm on the subject, I wonder what her new movie "Grey Gardens" is gonna be like. The original film, like anyone has ever wasted damn near 4 hours of their lives watching that shit besides me and a few other lonely masochists, is like listening to three wailing babies on a cross continental flight. I wonder if Drew Barrymore even sat through the entire thing. Nah, she probably rode her Elliptical machine through 30 minutes of it and then did 4,000 crunches while sipping cucumber water and flipped to Entertainment Tonight. I know what you're thinking, 'Oh, she's just jealous she just wants to be as thin as Drew.' Kind of true but I'd really rather Drew get fat.
-Canadian Castaway
Productivity is Boring, Life Lessons, VAFN, I Want TV
Day 48
I went about my day with a "To Do" list in hand. I spent the better part of the day doing little things like, sending out emails, and returning videos and going to check my work schedule. "To Do" lists used to give me not only motiviation but satisfaction. I guess this is still true but when the day is done and you must look back what has happened to fill up your snarky blog you realize how boring these little chore items really are and begin to wonder if you continue to fill up your days with these tiny tasks what will you become? I am not exactly sure what the answer to that is but I bet it would save me hundreds of dollars in library fines.
In a break between doing little items and crossing them off "The List" I went to class. It started out to be something of little consequence as per usual, I get bored and start passing notes and drawing goofy pictures or just staring at the birds outside the window wondering what the hell they are going to do next while our instructor prattles on about his favorite topic: the fact that none of us can use verb tense properly. Today was different though, well he still berated our laziness with verb tense, but, he also went on a rant.
The rant began after he was summing up a workshop regarding a friend of mines non-fiction story about questions of sexuality in a college-age friendship. The instructor identified this as the main theme of the piece and then went on and on about how as you get older you are increasingly narrowed as far as what you can do with making yourself vulnerable. Which means when you get older your life slows down and you don't take stupid risks in the name of love. After you have kids and a spouse and a house (ha, rhyming is silly) your opportunies for making "reckless" decisions decrease (He said "reckless" at least 8 times). I, of course, made the obvious sarcastic comment, "Wow, getting old sounds like fun."(come on you know I am unoriginal). Later, I found out a classmate of mine (much more clever than I) threw off his wedding ring at this. Goddamn creative geniuses making my pranks look preschool.
Anyway, I thought about the idea of putting yourself out there and taking crazy risks in the name of love or human connection. And thought about how I squandered the last few years putting up a wall that couldn't be breached from either side. Don't get me wrong, it's a beautiful wall with rose vines climbing up it's brick sides, but a wall nonetheless. I am ready to tear down the wall and take "reckless" risks if only I could remember what the hell they are. Naturally, I thought about "Sleepless in Seattle" (I'm a nut job) and how the main character threw herself at a strange man she'd heard on the radio. I think maybe my first step then would be to buy a radio, right?
As you may know this week contained "Canadian Thanksgiving" (whatever the hell that really means). I was particularly excited for this holiday for a variety of reasons but in my top three was the fact that Thanksgiving feast night fell directly on VAFN (vaguely asian food night). But, VAFN was simply moved to today. Luckily, there was none of that "Chinese cabbage" to contend with. I've thought of sending a letter of complaint regarding VAFN but then I looked around the cafeteria, and suddenly it was filled with all varieties of people of Asian descent. I am now a minority. Geez, it sucks being oppressed next thing I know they'll force me to learn the language.
So the other night I surfed around on cable television and my life forever changed. Unfortunately, I do not have a television in my own room so if I do not want to cross the courtyard filled with malicious dog-sized raccoons I am forced to watch something on my computer. Youtube doesn't do it for me after spending last night flipping through full-length programs on a huge screen. I thought about learning how to download shows, but it's illegal and not illegal enough to be a super cool thing to do so why bother, really. Perhaps I could put in a request to be moved closer to the TV room or, see just spend my nights on the couch in there it's fairly comfortable (even more comfortable when you brush off all of the miscellaneous crumbs that coat the cushions). I suppose I could buy a TV for my room but if I am too lazy to carry a bag or groceries home I don't think I'd make it with a decent-sized television set. I suppose I could always get an entire beauty makeover, lose 50 lbs and hit on the dude with the huge muscles and pretend like only he can save the day by carrying home my giant television. But, fuck that I'd still have to pay for the damn thing which would cut severely into my brie budget. What a "reckless" dilemma.
-Canadian Castaway
I went about my day with a "To Do" list in hand. I spent the better part of the day doing little things like, sending out emails, and returning videos and going to check my work schedule. "To Do" lists used to give me not only motiviation but satisfaction. I guess this is still true but when the day is done and you must look back what has happened to fill up your snarky blog you realize how boring these little chore items really are and begin to wonder if you continue to fill up your days with these tiny tasks what will you become? I am not exactly sure what the answer to that is but I bet it would save me hundreds of dollars in library fines.
In a break between doing little items and crossing them off "The List" I went to class. It started out to be something of little consequence as per usual, I get bored and start passing notes and drawing goofy pictures or just staring at the birds outside the window wondering what the hell they are going to do next while our instructor prattles on about his favorite topic: the fact that none of us can use verb tense properly. Today was different though, well he still berated our laziness with verb tense, but, he also went on a rant.
The rant began after he was summing up a workshop regarding a friend of mines non-fiction story about questions of sexuality in a college-age friendship. The instructor identified this as the main theme of the piece and then went on and on about how as you get older you are increasingly narrowed as far as what you can do with making yourself vulnerable. Which means when you get older your life slows down and you don't take stupid risks in the name of love. After you have kids and a spouse and a house (ha, rhyming is silly) your opportunies for making "reckless" decisions decrease (He said "reckless" at least 8 times). I, of course, made the obvious sarcastic comment, "Wow, getting old sounds like fun."(come on you know I am unoriginal). Later, I found out a classmate of mine (much more clever than I) threw off his wedding ring at this. Goddamn creative geniuses making my pranks look preschool.
Anyway, I thought about the idea of putting yourself out there and taking crazy risks in the name of love or human connection. And thought about how I squandered the last few years putting up a wall that couldn't be breached from either side. Don't get me wrong, it's a beautiful wall with rose vines climbing up it's brick sides, but a wall nonetheless. I am ready to tear down the wall and take "reckless" risks if only I could remember what the hell they are. Naturally, I thought about "Sleepless in Seattle" (I'm a nut job) and how the main character threw herself at a strange man she'd heard on the radio. I think maybe my first step then would be to buy a radio, right?
As you may know this week contained "Canadian Thanksgiving" (whatever the hell that really means). I was particularly excited for this holiday for a variety of reasons but in my top three was the fact that Thanksgiving feast night fell directly on VAFN (vaguely asian food night). But, VAFN was simply moved to today. Luckily, there was none of that "Chinese cabbage" to contend with. I've thought of sending a letter of complaint regarding VAFN but then I looked around the cafeteria, and suddenly it was filled with all varieties of people of Asian descent. I am now a minority. Geez, it sucks being oppressed next thing I know they'll force me to learn the language.
So the other night I surfed around on cable television and my life forever changed. Unfortunately, I do not have a television in my own room so if I do not want to cross the courtyard filled with malicious dog-sized raccoons I am forced to watch something on my computer. Youtube doesn't do it for me after spending last night flipping through full-length programs on a huge screen. I thought about learning how to download shows, but it's illegal and not illegal enough to be a super cool thing to do so why bother, really. Perhaps I could put in a request to be moved closer to the TV room or, see just spend my nights on the couch in there it's fairly comfortable (even more comfortable when you brush off all of the miscellaneous crumbs that coat the cushions). I suppose I could buy a TV for my room but if I am too lazy to carry a bag or groceries home I don't think I'd make it with a decent-sized television set. I suppose I could always get an entire beauty makeover, lose 50 lbs and hit on the dude with the huge muscles and pretend like only he can save the day by carrying home my giant television. But, fuck that I'd still have to pay for the damn thing which would cut severely into my brie budget. What a "reckless" dilemma.
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, October 12, 2009
Save On Foods Sucks, The Real Canadian Thanksgiving, Delightful Television
Day 47
Today I decided that I needed to give in and buy food. It's not that I am trying anorexia (I wish I had the discipline) it's that I am too lazy to carry my food stuffs. After a morning of lying around and whining to myself about not having a car I put on my cheap, ugly headphones and started out. The bus was taking forever so I walked the two miles to the Save on Foods (fancy-ass Canadian supermarket) and just as I was crossing the street to the store the bus pulled up.
Shopping in Canada isn't too different from shopping in the U.S. except everything is two dollars more expensive, there are no Targets and the check out lines are ridiculous. It's usually not that there are more than two or three people ahead of you but the workers ring up only two items per minute. Why this is I will never understand.
The checkout line I had chosen had two people ahead of me with medium-sized loads of items. But, I still had time to read and re-read the cover of all 12 magazines on the rack and all of the gum/candy labels and run back into the store to get extra brie (I know the Europeans are rubbing off on me) and it still wasn't my turn. I wished that I still smoked, as if that would've done me any good seeing as I gave it up, couldn't afford a pack in Canada anyhow (I'm already buying brie for god sakes that's like 50 bucks) and even if I had a cigarette I couldn't light it up in the store. So, I did what any American would do I rolled my eyes, huffed and puffed, refused to smile when the cashier and lady ahead of me looked my way and vowed to never, ever go back. But, I am now enrolled in their awards program, goddamnit.
So, I realized that I lied about yesterday. It wasn't the actual Canadian Thanksgiving Day, that was today. Oops, so hard to tell when fake holidays are happening. Anyway, the place I live at had a thanksgiving dinner and it was pathetic. There was no wine and the brussel sprouts were overcooked (thus ending my addiction to the little green monsters). The good thing though was that the Tofurky was so freaking creepy (it had a rind on it and things that I assume are spices that looked like baby cockroaches inside of it) that I almost begged for meat which is making my trek back to eating innocent animals just a little easier. Again, there was no thanks-giving and improv praying. But, maybe I am just bitter because I lost both of my arm wrestling matches (right and left) to a tall guy who weighs 97 pounds.
My entire life I had a feeling that cable television was awesome, though as a kid I was content to watch Jenny Jones and The Price is Right I knew that there was something else out there, something better. Tonight my point was proven. A group of my friends gather every week to watch House (which to my research is a regular network televison show). After convincing me that it was not too medical-ly AND that it was "hilarious" I sat down to watch an episode. Turns out that it wasn't that funny and within the first ten minutes they were drilling holes into a child's head. Plus, nobody, not even the people who watch the show every week, knew what was going on most of the time.
After the show everyone disbanded and grumbled about having missed last week's episode and blamed their misunderstandings on that. But, why would the producers/writers make a show that people wouldn't understand, people like me watching the show for the first time? Anyway, enough ranting the only other person left in the room was a guy who lives down the hall from me and we did what any two people from the U.S would do with a TV, channel surf. And guess what, we had cable television!
We flipped through sporting events, Rush Limbaugh, old movies, rappers, and cooking shows. It was like a dream come true (sorry cliched phrase, come on you know I'm a hack), I finally have cable television. Where else can you watch two guys try and cook a steak by putting it in a vaccum-sealed packet, dropping it into a garbage can, and blowing it up? (didn't work) After flipping around we settled on the program, Intervention on A & E.
The story started out with a girl shooting up. Every two minutes, between interviews with family members and the odd "family friend", words would pop up on the screen like:
"Three years before Brittney was born she had a sister who was abducted, raped, and killed."
"When Brittney was 12 she was sexually molested by a relative."
"At 13, Brittney started smoking pot and taking Xanax."
"At 15, Brittney was gang raped by her drug dealer and 5 other men."
We were riveted. Both of us conducted a running commentary like Regis and Kelly at the Macy's Parade. We guessed what would happen next and tried to tell both Brittney and her family members what to do. In the end Brittney finally went to rehab, here are the words:
"Brittney's mom is now seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist."
"Brittney only stayed in rehab for three weeks."
Next up we found a channel showing, "Sleepless in Seattle." I haven't seen this movie since I was like 13 (when I started smoking pot and taking Xanax). My neighbor and I watched the dinner scene and the following scene where the main female character goes to the attic with her mom to try on an old wedding dress (that, btw, rips, haha). My neighbor started telling me that the main character, Annie, was trying to convince herself that getting married to whatever his name was was the right thing to do. And that she had been the type of girl to believe in true love and now thought she had to settle. I was awed when a few minutes later my neighbor's predictions had been actualized. Then I remembered that I am supposed to be a writer and should've known what was coming based on dialogue and body language. I am frightfully ignorant.
Anyway, my neighbor got a call and decided to call it a night. I watched Sleepless in Seattle and thought about an article I had read recently on screenwriting about how all films are really just old, classic tales. This was true with Sleepless, the idea of fate/destiny versus reality and taking risks in the name of true love. But, what a good screenwriter does is bring the little extras/details to the story to make it fresh. Something that was achieved here particularly through the child characters. The 8 year old son said words like, "sex" and "ho" and it was hilarious. It made me want to have a whole bunch of kids so I can teach them naughty words. And the little girl character (the son's friend) was way ahead of her time as she was making up texting type lingo abbreviations like:
MFEO: Made for Each Other
HNG: Hello and Goodbye
YOH: Your Only Hope
After the cheesy end credits I too left the TV room. But, I thought about it and it seems to me that every successive thing that I watched got better and better. Just think if I had stayed for a few days, I wonder what kind of awesome thing I would be watching. God, I love cable.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I decided that I needed to give in and buy food. It's not that I am trying anorexia (I wish I had the discipline) it's that I am too lazy to carry my food stuffs. After a morning of lying around and whining to myself about not having a car I put on my cheap, ugly headphones and started out. The bus was taking forever so I walked the two miles to the Save on Foods (fancy-ass Canadian supermarket) and just as I was crossing the street to the store the bus pulled up.
Shopping in Canada isn't too different from shopping in the U.S. except everything is two dollars more expensive, there are no Targets and the check out lines are ridiculous. It's usually not that there are more than two or three people ahead of you but the workers ring up only two items per minute. Why this is I will never understand.
The checkout line I had chosen had two people ahead of me with medium-sized loads of items. But, I still had time to read and re-read the cover of all 12 magazines on the rack and all of the gum/candy labels and run back into the store to get extra brie (I know the Europeans are rubbing off on me) and it still wasn't my turn. I wished that I still smoked, as if that would've done me any good seeing as I gave it up, couldn't afford a pack in Canada anyhow (I'm already buying brie for god sakes that's like 50 bucks) and even if I had a cigarette I couldn't light it up in the store. So, I did what any American would do I rolled my eyes, huffed and puffed, refused to smile when the cashier and lady ahead of me looked my way and vowed to never, ever go back. But, I am now enrolled in their awards program, goddamnit.
So, I realized that I lied about yesterday. It wasn't the actual Canadian Thanksgiving Day, that was today. Oops, so hard to tell when fake holidays are happening. Anyway, the place I live at had a thanksgiving dinner and it was pathetic. There was no wine and the brussel sprouts were overcooked (thus ending my addiction to the little green monsters). The good thing though was that the Tofurky was so freaking creepy (it had a rind on it and things that I assume are spices that looked like baby cockroaches inside of it) that I almost begged for meat which is making my trek back to eating innocent animals just a little easier. Again, there was no thanks-giving and improv praying. But, maybe I am just bitter because I lost both of my arm wrestling matches (right and left) to a tall guy who weighs 97 pounds.
My entire life I had a feeling that cable television was awesome, though as a kid I was content to watch Jenny Jones and The Price is Right I knew that there was something else out there, something better. Tonight my point was proven. A group of my friends gather every week to watch House (which to my research is a regular network televison show). After convincing me that it was not too medical-ly AND that it was "hilarious" I sat down to watch an episode. Turns out that it wasn't that funny and within the first ten minutes they were drilling holes into a child's head. Plus, nobody, not even the people who watch the show every week, knew what was going on most of the time.
After the show everyone disbanded and grumbled about having missed last week's episode and blamed their misunderstandings on that. But, why would the producers/writers make a show that people wouldn't understand, people like me watching the show for the first time? Anyway, enough ranting the only other person left in the room was a guy who lives down the hall from me and we did what any two people from the U.S would do with a TV, channel surf. And guess what, we had cable television!
We flipped through sporting events, Rush Limbaugh, old movies, rappers, and cooking shows. It was like a dream come true (sorry cliched phrase, come on you know I'm a hack), I finally have cable television. Where else can you watch two guys try and cook a steak by putting it in a vaccum-sealed packet, dropping it into a garbage can, and blowing it up? (didn't work) After flipping around we settled on the program, Intervention on A & E.
The story started out with a girl shooting up. Every two minutes, between interviews with family members and the odd "family friend", words would pop up on the screen like:
"Three years before Brittney was born she had a sister who was abducted, raped, and killed."
"When Brittney was 12 she was sexually molested by a relative."
"At 13, Brittney started smoking pot and taking Xanax."
"At 15, Brittney was gang raped by her drug dealer and 5 other men."
We were riveted. Both of us conducted a running commentary like Regis and Kelly at the Macy's Parade. We guessed what would happen next and tried to tell both Brittney and her family members what to do. In the end Brittney finally went to rehab, here are the words:
"Brittney's mom is now seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist."
"Brittney only stayed in rehab for three weeks."
Next up we found a channel showing, "Sleepless in Seattle." I haven't seen this movie since I was like 13 (when I started smoking pot and taking Xanax). My neighbor and I watched the dinner scene and the following scene where the main female character goes to the attic with her mom to try on an old wedding dress (that, btw, rips, haha). My neighbor started telling me that the main character, Annie, was trying to convince herself that getting married to whatever his name was was the right thing to do. And that she had been the type of girl to believe in true love and now thought she had to settle. I was awed when a few minutes later my neighbor's predictions had been actualized. Then I remembered that I am supposed to be a writer and should've known what was coming based on dialogue and body language. I am frightfully ignorant.
Anyway, my neighbor got a call and decided to call it a night. I watched Sleepless in Seattle and thought about an article I had read recently on screenwriting about how all films are really just old, classic tales. This was true with Sleepless, the idea of fate/destiny versus reality and taking risks in the name of true love. But, what a good screenwriter does is bring the little extras/details to the story to make it fresh. Something that was achieved here particularly through the child characters. The 8 year old son said words like, "sex" and "ho" and it was hilarious. It made me want to have a whole bunch of kids so I can teach them naughty words. And the little girl character (the son's friend) was way ahead of her time as she was making up texting type lingo abbreviations like:
MFEO: Made for Each Other
HNG: Hello and Goodbye
YOH: Your Only Hope
After the cheesy end credits I too left the TV room. But, I thought about it and it seems to me that every successive thing that I watched got better and better. Just think if I had stayed for a few days, I wonder what kind of awesome thing I would be watching. God, I love cable.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Great Canadian Celebration (or was it)
Day 46
It finally happened; Canadian Thanksgiving Day. I spent the entire morning in a crazed excitement much like when I was a kid and had to wait in bed until the sun would rise before I woke up my crabby brother and we secretly opened our gifts from Santa. Anyway, I tried to carry on with my priorities of the day but eventually found myself on a bus heading toward the festivities two hours early carrying a gaudy flower arrangement and staring alternately at the screen that ran the upcoming stops and the thumb of the guy next to me (he looked like a generic version of the Wolfman and his thumb was all scabby). I skipped up the street and promptly knocked on the wrong door of the house. I was directed to the proper door my very first Canadian Thanksgiving began. Here are a few highlights and observations:
1. I was delighted to meet my Canadian friend's mother thinking she must be an expert on the occasion. But, when I asked her about the story behind Canadian Thanksgiving, she said, "I'll have to look it up on the internet." She did look it up. The only thing I remember listening to her read off the computer screen was that Canadians started celebrating Thanksgiving in 1957. Whoop dee do.
2. The meal was much like in the U.S. The only exception, at least for me, were the brussel sprouts. After much speculation I tried one. They are like crack. I ate twice as many brussel sprouts as anyone else at the table. And was sent home with a container of them. I looked inside the container and only found 6 brussels, a mere snack. Will I get the shakes from withdrawals? Is there a 24 hour grocery store nearby?
3. The Canadian Thanksgiving did not have a Macy's Day Parade. One can never fully appreciate the importance of watching giant air-filled cartoon characters being dragged down a street until they go without it.
4. But, there was plenty of booze. There's nothing like being shit-faced in front of your friends mother at 4 o'clock in the afternoon.
5. We didn't have to go around the table saying what each of us was thankful for or sit through someone attempting to create the most incredible prayer ever made up on the spot.
6. There was Scrabble. I was the only player who had a teammate and we spent most of our time thinking of (but never laying) the word "ZIT". Guess who didn't win.
7. The best part of the evening was doing the dishes. Who'd a thought right? Turns out when you actually volunteer to do the dishes it doesn't seem like work. Or, it could've been the booze or the fun I had watching my friend scrub the same dish for ten minutes.
8. Today was a life-changing experience (no thanks to the lack of purpose the Canadian's put on their so-called holiday) I decided that my vegetarianism had gone on long enough. I mean seriously I really only did it to piss off my dad when I was 17 (and worked it like hell). So, tonight, I ate the turkey. It was amazing and at the same time I felt like the biggest fool. What a waste the last seven years have been, I could've been eating so much more succulent flesh. Had I not taken that first bite I wouldn't have known.
9. Alll of these exotic things but there was one rememberance of home at the close of the evening. My bodyguard walked me home and went on and on about how thankful he is about the opportunities he's had in life. Which, here's the part that makes me feel at home, led to an embarassing wave of guilt for my ungratefulness.
All said I consider today's festivities a success in proving that the Canadian's really are holiday whores. But, I don't frown on them for it, I exhalt their genius. These are people who don't have to call in sick to work when they need a day off they are guarenteed a day or two at least every month. Just think if you still faked ill, you'd never have to work.
-Canadian Castaway
It finally happened; Canadian Thanksgiving Day. I spent the entire morning in a crazed excitement much like when I was a kid and had to wait in bed until the sun would rise before I woke up my crabby brother and we secretly opened our gifts from Santa. Anyway, I tried to carry on with my priorities of the day but eventually found myself on a bus heading toward the festivities two hours early carrying a gaudy flower arrangement and staring alternately at the screen that ran the upcoming stops and the thumb of the guy next to me (he looked like a generic version of the Wolfman and his thumb was all scabby). I skipped up the street and promptly knocked on the wrong door of the house. I was directed to the proper door my very first Canadian Thanksgiving began. Here are a few highlights and observations:
1. I was delighted to meet my Canadian friend's mother thinking she must be an expert on the occasion. But, when I asked her about the story behind Canadian Thanksgiving, she said, "I'll have to look it up on the internet." She did look it up. The only thing I remember listening to her read off the computer screen was that Canadians started celebrating Thanksgiving in 1957. Whoop dee do.
2. The meal was much like in the U.S. The only exception, at least for me, were the brussel sprouts. After much speculation I tried one. They are like crack. I ate twice as many brussel sprouts as anyone else at the table. And was sent home with a container of them. I looked inside the container and only found 6 brussels, a mere snack. Will I get the shakes from withdrawals? Is there a 24 hour grocery store nearby?
3. The Canadian Thanksgiving did not have a Macy's Day Parade. One can never fully appreciate the importance of watching giant air-filled cartoon characters being dragged down a street until they go without it.
4. But, there was plenty of booze. There's nothing like being shit-faced in front of your friends mother at 4 o'clock in the afternoon.
5. We didn't have to go around the table saying what each of us was thankful for or sit through someone attempting to create the most incredible prayer ever made up on the spot.
6. There was Scrabble. I was the only player who had a teammate and we spent most of our time thinking of (but never laying) the word "ZIT". Guess who didn't win.
7. The best part of the evening was doing the dishes. Who'd a thought right? Turns out when you actually volunteer to do the dishes it doesn't seem like work. Or, it could've been the booze or the fun I had watching my friend scrub the same dish for ten minutes.
8. Today was a life-changing experience (no thanks to the lack of purpose the Canadian's put on their so-called holiday) I decided that my vegetarianism had gone on long enough. I mean seriously I really only did it to piss off my dad when I was 17 (and worked it like hell). So, tonight, I ate the turkey. It was amazing and at the same time I felt like the biggest fool. What a waste the last seven years have been, I could've been eating so much more succulent flesh. Had I not taken that first bite I wouldn't have known.
9. Alll of these exotic things but there was one rememberance of home at the close of the evening. My bodyguard walked me home and went on and on about how thankful he is about the opportunities he's had in life. Which, here's the part that makes me feel at home, led to an embarassing wave of guilt for my ungratefulness.
All said I consider today's festivities a success in proving that the Canadian's really are holiday whores. But, I don't frown on them for it, I exhalt their genius. These are people who don't have to call in sick to work when they need a day off they are guarenteed a day or two at least every month. Just think if you still faked ill, you'd never have to work.
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Clothing Optional Beach, Other People's Boyfriends, Canadian Thanksgiving
Day 45
Today I finally made it to the Clothing Optional Beach that's across the street and down over a 1,000 steps. The bad news is is that it was cold today, which means less naked people to oogle at. The good news is that in the cold weather only the intensely insane get naked which makes for a good time. Well, except when you are the girl who has to watch everyone's stuff while they swim AND everyone had decided to dump all of their shit on a log next to the forty year old guy who was wearing a fleece top and nothing else. They left me (what kind of pals do I have making me watch their stuff and sit with half-naked strangers).
I looked around, the only other naked person or person at all was a good fifty yards away. The naked guy was sitting in profile I noticed, THANK GOD. I started to take photos of my friends and occupy myself going through my backpack and then I finally got up the courage to steal a glance. He had turned to face me AND he was smiling. My companions returned after only a few minutes in the icy waters. We chatted for a bit and laughed. I took 55 photos in an hour and still the guy was facing us his smile bigger than ever (at least I think that was the only thing that got bigger). I snuck glances every now and tried to get a good look. And, I discovered that I am strangely attracted to creepy half naked 40 year olds, NOT! But, I did realize that my sneaky glances may not have been so sneaky as I had thought and he most likely thought I was staring at him and thus that was his come-on smile. Ewwww!
So lately I've had a thing for other people's boyfriends. Yahoo.ca published an article stating that there a study that proved that women find taken men more attractive than schleppy single guys (but, who can trust that news source they think that baby's dancing to Britney Spears is humorous) Anyway, this is all fine and natural as long as I don't act on it and those boyfriends don't belong to friends of mine. You know where I am going.
I've always considered myself to be have certain standards and morals (just a couple). Until recently, I was a good person (relatively). But twice now I have blatantly hit on the boyfriends of my friends who were gracious enough to pass off my fliratious comments as jokes, though in one case my aggressiveness cleared a table of 12. One of these days these friends are gonna snap, right? Shit, I'm gonna have to learn Tae Kwon Do. No, everybody knows Tae Kwon Do. I am gonna have to study Kung Fu (perhaps I could learn this from the TV show, hmmm). What does it mean that I think about learning a complicated fighting style instead of learning how to stop flirting? Well, at least I still think that killing people is wrong (sometimes). Fuck that moral code shit it's too hard to keep up with. Where I could find a Master with a lot of tolerance for whining?
Tomorrow is a big day. It's Canadian Thanksgiving Day. These canucks are whores for holidays, they only have 5 actual work days per year because they are too busy celebrating. But what I can't understand is why they have to steal this holiday from the U.S. Besides, Canadians are thankful everyday unlike in the U.S. we reserve that kind of behavior for one day a year. Anyway, I wondered what the story behind Canadian Thanksgiving was so I asked a few Native Canadians. I mean, it's not like they could possibly have the same romaticized story version of the Native Americans saving our honky asses by sharing food with us (notice how there is no sequel to the story, we wouldn't want our hostile take over of their land and small pox-athon being told, it's not pretty enough for kids to know about).
The results of my questioning were somewhat inconclusive. I asked if there were pilgrims and indians involved (they poo pooed my use of Indians as they call Natives "First Nations" rah, rah, rah) they avoided answering. I asked what they ate at the meal and all they said was, "Turkey." said in a condescending tone like, 'What else would you eat on Thanksgiving?' Finally, I asked, "What is so special about your Thanksgiving then?" And was answered with, "Well, we have it before the U.S."
I was lucky enough to have been invited to this suspicious even by a Native Canadian. So, tomorrow we will see, we will see...
-Canadian Castaway
Today I finally made it to the Clothing Optional Beach that's across the street and down over a 1,000 steps. The bad news is is that it was cold today, which means less naked people to oogle at. The good news is that in the cold weather only the intensely insane get naked which makes for a good time. Well, except when you are the girl who has to watch everyone's stuff while they swim AND everyone had decided to dump all of their shit on a log next to the forty year old guy who was wearing a fleece top and nothing else. They left me (what kind of pals do I have making me watch their stuff and sit with half-naked strangers).
I looked around, the only other naked person or person at all was a good fifty yards away. The naked guy was sitting in profile I noticed, THANK GOD. I started to take photos of my friends and occupy myself going through my backpack and then I finally got up the courage to steal a glance. He had turned to face me AND he was smiling. My companions returned after only a few minutes in the icy waters. We chatted for a bit and laughed. I took 55 photos in an hour and still the guy was facing us his smile bigger than ever (at least I think that was the only thing that got bigger). I snuck glances every now and tried to get a good look. And, I discovered that I am strangely attracted to creepy half naked 40 year olds, NOT! But, I did realize that my sneaky glances may not have been so sneaky as I had thought and he most likely thought I was staring at him and thus that was his come-on smile. Ewwww!
So lately I've had a thing for other people's boyfriends. Yahoo.ca published an article stating that there a study that proved that women find taken men more attractive than schleppy single guys (but, who can trust that news source they think that baby's dancing to Britney Spears is humorous) Anyway, this is all fine and natural as long as I don't act on it and those boyfriends don't belong to friends of mine. You know where I am going.
I've always considered myself to be have certain standards and morals (just a couple). Until recently, I was a good person (relatively). But twice now I have blatantly hit on the boyfriends of my friends who were gracious enough to pass off my fliratious comments as jokes, though in one case my aggressiveness cleared a table of 12. One of these days these friends are gonna snap, right? Shit, I'm gonna have to learn Tae Kwon Do. No, everybody knows Tae Kwon Do. I am gonna have to study Kung Fu (perhaps I could learn this from the TV show, hmmm). What does it mean that I think about learning a complicated fighting style instead of learning how to stop flirting? Well, at least I still think that killing people is wrong (sometimes). Fuck that moral code shit it's too hard to keep up with. Where I could find a Master with a lot of tolerance for whining?
Tomorrow is a big day. It's Canadian Thanksgiving Day. These canucks are whores for holidays, they only have 5 actual work days per year because they are too busy celebrating. But what I can't understand is why they have to steal this holiday from the U.S. Besides, Canadians are thankful everyday unlike in the U.S. we reserve that kind of behavior for one day a year. Anyway, I wondered what the story behind Canadian Thanksgiving was so I asked a few Native Canadians. I mean, it's not like they could possibly have the same romaticized story version of the Native Americans saving our honky asses by sharing food with us (notice how there is no sequel to the story, we wouldn't want our hostile take over of their land and small pox-athon being told, it's not pretty enough for kids to know about).
The results of my questioning were somewhat inconclusive. I asked if there were pilgrims and indians involved (they poo pooed my use of Indians as they call Natives "First Nations" rah, rah, rah) they avoided answering. I asked what they ate at the meal and all they said was, "Turkey." said in a condescending tone like, 'What else would you eat on Thanksgiving?' Finally, I asked, "What is so special about your Thanksgiving then?" And was answered with, "Well, we have it before the U.S."
I was lucky enough to have been invited to this suspicious even by a Native Canadian. So, tomorrow we will see, we will see...
-Canadian Castaway
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