Day 186
Today I finally did it. I unfriended someone. Actually, I enjoyed it so much that I went ahead and unfriended someone else. The first unfriending is a guy who hit on me over facebook chat for months and then pretended like it was nothing but friend talk. (Note: I never compare my friends with goddesses) Now, he's back and wants to chat. Ha! Not anymore. The second victim of my unfriending kick off was a girl I never really talked to in high school. She wasn't a bad person, then. Little did anyone suspect that she would grow up to be the kind of person who would get a low rent mutual funds position and solicit clientele by befriending people who went to her same high school and sending them a generic, yet overly friendly message asking them to invest. With two friends less I don't feel unpopular, I feel free. Tomorrow, I think I'll take on that asshole I liked once who flaunted it in my face as though he was too good for me. Perhaps I'll leave a nasty message on his wall as a parting gift. Hopefully, his mom is a friend of his so she can know he does coke and that's probably why he lost so much weight recently.
Most of today was spent eating things and watching things. Specifically, eating a chicken sandwich that was nearly nine bucks and not worth it and watching the Winter Olympics amongst Canadians. The hockey game was first and then the Closing Ceremonies. Here are the highlights of the day:
Hockey:
-I didn't happen to have an American flag t-shirt lying around or any red, white, and blue face paint so I had to make due with a Captain America t-shirt. But, later I added a flag to make a cape. I liked the cape flag so much that I thought about wearing it daily. But, in Canada country that would not only make me unapproachable (which would be fine) but also I would be the butt of heckling from drunken Canadians. A pity, because the stars are so beautiful.
-Watching the game with a whole bunch of Canadians was exciting. The only downfall (besides that we lost) was every time the Canadian team had a near miss at a goal the Canadian fans made a whole lot of racket, often drowning out my "Yay!"
-I realized that I suck at cheering at sporting events on TV. Who knew this was a skill? I am wondering if my lack of enthusiasm comes from loathing the blockheads who yell at TV screens. Next time, I think I will just get a horn to blow. Not only would that be effective cheering, it would piss off a whole lotta people.
-I learned that throwing a tinfoil ball at a loud mouth Canadian's head from across the room is challenging and fun plus, it elicits nasty looks from people. This reminds you who your real friends are.
-The U.S. goal in the final seconds of the game to tie it up was exciting. I must say that I did want the U.S. to win, mostly so I could shove this idiot half-Canadian's face in the dirt. Then, I realized that I could shove his face in the dirt just based on his character and that Canada winning gold in their homeland is pretty fucking meaningful. Now, before you scream traitor in my face, you must realize the excitement in seeing thousands of Canadians with leaves on their faces, leaping like they'd won the lottery. This kind of pride is beyond touching, and almost infectious to be near. I nearly succumbed to it myself. It looked like fun. But, I stuck true to my country and was mildly heartbroken and a little bitter. I am not yet a Canadian.
Closing Ceremony:
-I still have no idea who that Nikki whats-her-face is and I still don't like her. But really, how hard is it to learn to lip sync?
-This ceremony with it's "I'm sorry" routine and parade of ridiculous Mounties, inflated animals, and hockey players makes me proud to be in the company of people who can make fun of themselves. For the first time ever, I think I understood what it must be like to be Canadian, and honestly, it ain't bad. Now, let's just see if Shatner was right about the Canadians ability to "make love in a canoe" before I convert.
-Alanis Morrisette lip syncing is the saddest thing in the world. And, she really sucks at it.
-Where was Shawn White during all of this hoopla? Did anyone notice that him and Johnny Weir were not on camera at all during the closing ceremony? Were they not invited? Is Shawn just bored with this whole thing? Did Johnny have nothing to wear?
-Is Nickelback really something that Canada should flaunt?
-I was super excited to see Avril but somehow her music didn't seem to fit into the ceremonies. I don't think that stealing someone's boyfriend has anything to do with downhill skiing. But, maybe I just don't get it.
-My all-time favorite moment of the Closing Ceremony was when one of the Canadian commentators said that Russia's part of the program that promoted the Sochi games was Russia meets Avatar. Is that a compliment? Is that a slight? Everyone I know who saw Avatar said that it was pretty, but the story sucked. What does that say about Russia?
Well, the rest of my evening was spent on the phone with my mother alternately hearing her shout at the dog and my father. And yet, I think that was more exciting than reading the personal essays I was assigned.
Tip of the Day: Don't be on your cellphone when the cute guy at the burger shop wants to talk.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Personal Suck, Foreign Guys I Don't Know, Yes or No, Dutch for a Day, Let's Be Friends
Day 185
So, today I started reading one of many personal essays that are required for my coursework. The story began and was seemingly about a hermit crab. This was wonderful. I thought, finally someone is not writing some sappy metaphor-laden piece of shit. How can I always be such a moron? Of course it turned into sappy crappy bullshit about missing your home as though she is the only goddamn person in the world clever enough to think: Gee, I think home is where the heart is--what an original, inspired story. I should tell it and hook people in with the promise of reading about my hermit crab. Honestly, the life and times of a hermit crab are much more riveting than hearing a Kentucky creek, and how the author misses it, but will never return to it. Am I jaded? Maybe. I think I am just bored. Can't people like that just keep diaries and be done with it?
In more important news. I read and watched a ton of news coverage regarding the disaster in Chile today. One of the news items was that there was a tsunami advisory in effect. My friends decided to go down to the beach. I met them down there. The water was high, and allegedly there were seals in the distance (could have been driftwood). The bad news was that I hadn't been out of my room in quite sometime. So, when I got down there my friends were with this Belgian guy from next door. I walked up and said, "Hey! It's my favorite Dutch guy!" He said, "I'm from Belgium." I replied, "Same thing," in a monotone voice. He got offended and I realized that my delivery of stupid jokes needs to be better when talking with foreign men I don't know and that if I have been in my room for a long time I can be an asshole in public. This would all be very unfortunate if I were not such a huge opportunistic optimist. I made two mental notes: 1. Apologize to the Belgian by explaining what a huge ass I am. 2. If ever I get an enemy who is foreign male I don't know very well I will arrange to meet him after I have been alone in my room.
Today I listened to my new favorite radio station. I listened to it so long that it stopped playing and popped up a message that said, "Are you still listening?" I clicked on "yes." Who would click on "No?" If it's coming out of your computer, and you didn't suddenly go deaf you must be listening. Right? If you weren't listening you'd have to be in a place other than near your computer, and thus unable to click "no" anyhow. This is the kind of thing that happens and distracts me for over an hour. Exciting life, huh?
Well, tonight was exciting. I went to a big Dutch Olympic celebration party. Here are some highlights:
1. So, you have to take a bus to a train to get to the party. My friends were meeting up with me and a ragtag group from the rez who turned out to be the three people I'd rather not talk to, look at, or know in any capacity. Luckily, I had drank a half bottle of wine before departing. I teased and poked at them. My actual nemesis was there, but went back before the bus came, deciding she'd better study. She left me with a guy who wishes he is a player and as my friend puts it "he doesn't acknowledge the existence of people who he thinks are unfuckable," pretty much anything that isn't 20 pounds underweight and female. The other guy is what my other friend calls a "prick." He has no personality and thinks he is very pretty. The only bonus is that he talks like Eeyore. On the long bus ride over I texted 6 people and had 3 actual phone conversations in an effort not to talk to them. We couldn't have talked anyway because we all sat very far away from each other.
2. Apparently, you cannot get into the Dutch party place unless you are Dutch or a guest of someone who is Dutch. This was fine as one of my friends is Dutch. But, the Dutch person could only have one guest and we were one Dutch to five Non-Dutch. So, my friend flitted around and found Dutch people who didn't have a Non-Dutch guest and paired us up. My friend ended up with an old man, and I ended up with a pregnant man. I was jealous of her old man.
3. Once inside I realized 2 important things: a. Heineken isn't really that bad. b. The floor was super sticky.
4. The frontman of the Dutch band looked exactly like Jack White. Two songs after I realized this they played a White Stripes song.
5. You haven't lived until you hear a Dutch band cover Bohemian Rhapsody.
6. The sandwich called a "croquet" has an amazing middle, but miscellaneous contents. I learned that it is best with mustard, and the bottle that says "mustard" is really Dijon mustard so slathering it on thick will lead to burning sensations. Wiping your tongue off with a napkin isn't an option if you are holding a sandwich in one hand and a Heineken in the other.
7. I almost didn't go to the party because there would be dancing involved. I am fine with dancing, if it's in your own room by yourself. Well, this was my old mindset. When a Dutch DJ starts spinning remixes of Michael Jackson, Pump up the Jam, Jump Around, and Madonna's Music you have no choice but to dance and notice that everyone else has just as fucked up moves as you do, especially the player who thinks he's in a nightclub and tries grinding on what he would consider a fuckable.
After that we pretty much just took a long train/bus ride home, where I almost puked watching the player try to slip a hand up a friend's skirt, then we popped off for a McFlurry and went home. Being Dutch ain't so bad.
I came home and went straight to facebook. During the day I forced myself to go without it for 5 consecutive hours, and now am making up for lost time, apparently. Anyway, the girl that I like the least in the entire world right now has asked to be my friend. I am torn. On one hand, I could make sure she knows I think she is a snobby America-hating bitch. Or, I could befriend her and look at her page and make nasty remarks to to cheer myself up when I am feeling blue. Option 2 sounds alright. Funny how friending someone can be a source of inspiration for hatred.
Tip of the Day: If you have the urge to wave at the cute guy on the train, do it. He'll wave back.
-Canadian Castaway
So, today I started reading one of many personal essays that are required for my coursework. The story began and was seemingly about a hermit crab. This was wonderful. I thought, finally someone is not writing some sappy metaphor-laden piece of shit. How can I always be such a moron? Of course it turned into sappy crappy bullshit about missing your home as though she is the only goddamn person in the world clever enough to think: Gee, I think home is where the heart is--what an original, inspired story. I should tell it and hook people in with the promise of reading about my hermit crab. Honestly, the life and times of a hermit crab are much more riveting than hearing a Kentucky creek, and how the author misses it, but will never return to it. Am I jaded? Maybe. I think I am just bored. Can't people like that just keep diaries and be done with it?
In more important news. I read and watched a ton of news coverage regarding the disaster in Chile today. One of the news items was that there was a tsunami advisory in effect. My friends decided to go down to the beach. I met them down there. The water was high, and allegedly there were seals in the distance (could have been driftwood). The bad news was that I hadn't been out of my room in quite sometime. So, when I got down there my friends were with this Belgian guy from next door. I walked up and said, "Hey! It's my favorite Dutch guy!" He said, "I'm from Belgium." I replied, "Same thing," in a monotone voice. He got offended and I realized that my delivery of stupid jokes needs to be better when talking with foreign men I don't know and that if I have been in my room for a long time I can be an asshole in public. This would all be very unfortunate if I were not such a huge opportunistic optimist. I made two mental notes: 1. Apologize to the Belgian by explaining what a huge ass I am. 2. If ever I get an enemy who is foreign male I don't know very well I will arrange to meet him after I have been alone in my room.
Today I listened to my new favorite radio station. I listened to it so long that it stopped playing and popped up a message that said, "Are you still listening?" I clicked on "yes." Who would click on "No?" If it's coming out of your computer, and you didn't suddenly go deaf you must be listening. Right? If you weren't listening you'd have to be in a place other than near your computer, and thus unable to click "no" anyhow. This is the kind of thing that happens and distracts me for over an hour. Exciting life, huh?
Well, tonight was exciting. I went to a big Dutch Olympic celebration party. Here are some highlights:
1. So, you have to take a bus to a train to get to the party. My friends were meeting up with me and a ragtag group from the rez who turned out to be the three people I'd rather not talk to, look at, or know in any capacity. Luckily, I had drank a half bottle of wine before departing. I teased and poked at them. My actual nemesis was there, but went back before the bus came, deciding she'd better study. She left me with a guy who wishes he is a player and as my friend puts it "he doesn't acknowledge the existence of people who he thinks are unfuckable," pretty much anything that isn't 20 pounds underweight and female. The other guy is what my other friend calls a "prick." He has no personality and thinks he is very pretty. The only bonus is that he talks like Eeyore. On the long bus ride over I texted 6 people and had 3 actual phone conversations in an effort not to talk to them. We couldn't have talked anyway because we all sat very far away from each other.
2. Apparently, you cannot get into the Dutch party place unless you are Dutch or a guest of someone who is Dutch. This was fine as one of my friends is Dutch. But, the Dutch person could only have one guest and we were one Dutch to five Non-Dutch. So, my friend flitted around and found Dutch people who didn't have a Non-Dutch guest and paired us up. My friend ended up with an old man, and I ended up with a pregnant man. I was jealous of her old man.
3. Once inside I realized 2 important things: a. Heineken isn't really that bad. b. The floor was super sticky.
4. The frontman of the Dutch band looked exactly like Jack White. Two songs after I realized this they played a White Stripes song.
5. You haven't lived until you hear a Dutch band cover Bohemian Rhapsody.
6. The sandwich called a "croquet" has an amazing middle, but miscellaneous contents. I learned that it is best with mustard, and the bottle that says "mustard" is really Dijon mustard so slathering it on thick will lead to burning sensations. Wiping your tongue off with a napkin isn't an option if you are holding a sandwich in one hand and a Heineken in the other.
7. I almost didn't go to the party because there would be dancing involved. I am fine with dancing, if it's in your own room by yourself. Well, this was my old mindset. When a Dutch DJ starts spinning remixes of Michael Jackson, Pump up the Jam, Jump Around, and Madonna's Music you have no choice but to dance and notice that everyone else has just as fucked up moves as you do, especially the player who thinks he's in a nightclub and tries grinding on what he would consider a fuckable.
After that we pretty much just took a long train/bus ride home, where I almost puked watching the player try to slip a hand up a friend's skirt, then we popped off for a McFlurry and went home. Being Dutch ain't so bad.
I came home and went straight to facebook. During the day I forced myself to go without it for 5 consecutive hours, and now am making up for lost time, apparently. Anyway, the girl that I like the least in the entire world right now has asked to be my friend. I am torn. On one hand, I could make sure she knows I think she is a snobby America-hating bitch. Or, I could befriend her and look at her page and make nasty remarks to to cheer myself up when I am feeling blue. Option 2 sounds alright. Funny how friending someone can be a source of inspiration for hatred.
Tip of the Day: If you have the urge to wave at the cute guy on the train, do it. He'll wave back.
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, February 26, 2010
To Banana or Not to Banana, Coffee Daddy, Canadian Trinket Shopping, New Hobby, Latest Suitor, Know-it-all
Day 184
I went to breakfast this morning specifically to steal fruit. My plan was that I was going to take one more piece of fruit than I was allotted, and thus feel like a badass. (I know, sad, huh? It's come to this) When I got there I was met with two challenges: 1. The fruit wasn't the usual apples or pears, it was partially rotten bananas. 2. Squeezing the bananas proved to be great fun. This seems like it would not be the end of the world, right? Wrong. I had promised myself the rush of morning thievery and the bananas were fun to swish, but I had already swished all the bananas in the bin, plus not only would I have one rotten, inedible banana I would've had to deal with two. Solution: Steal bread instead. Good thing I am excellent in a crisis situation, making a major life decision is a difficult way to start your day.
After I unloaded my stolen bread I made a pot of coffee. It used to be that one cup of coffee, maybe two would do. It's gotten to the point that five cups are necessary for me to be able to move. Today, I made six cups and drank them all. This last increase terrifies me. Two years from now will I be able to support my 12 cup a day habit? Is it odd to get a sugar daddy to keep me in coffee?
After I spent hours making little marks on my script and drinking coffee I ventured out to buy trinkets for my friend back home. On the way I called up another friend who bitched that she wrote me a letter months ago that I had yet to respond to (I didn't remember her letter). Buying trinkets meant that I could go to the dollarstore. This store is jam-packed floor to ceiling with trinkets. The key is that most of them are total shit so you really have to search. The other major factor of shopping there is that due to the layout and the volume of shit the aisles are very small and you feel like a lardass milling around in there, but no so much of a lardass that you would start seriously dieting or not shop there. I was delighted to see that they had an entire section devoted to Canadian memorabilia.
A half hour later I walked out of there with everything from a maple leaf slap bracelet to a moose magnet. I even found a postcard to send to my whiny letter friend (seriously, tell people you are a writer and they will be ohh-so disappointed when you don't send them letters). The postcard was my favorite. They had a whole rack of soggy postcards out front on a rack in the rain. I flipped through pretty landscapes and the like, until I found one with a scary wolf on it and "Canada" in goofy letters superimposed on it's chest. I have never seen a wolf here, ever. Well, except on this postcard. If they were going for what you can actually see they should've put a raccoon sticking out of a dumpster on it.
I've acquired a freaky new hobby. I go onto facebook and look up people that I didn't really talk to in high school and spend an hour looking at not only their pictures, but their significant others pics. It's like I get high from it. I click through each picture and when I finally look away an hour has gone by and I feel like I am a predator. Then I got to thinking about it. I'm not the only creeper online. Judging from some of these photos these people live quite dull lives. Lives dull enough that they may spend hours crawling facebook photos as well. Wouldn't it be amazing if we were looking at each other's photos at the same time. Me thinking: God, his wife isn't so bad-looking. I bet I'd talk to her. Him thinking: Where the fuck is she? Not married, I knew it.
This doesn't mean I don' t have any prospects. The only problem is that my prospects make me question my sexuality. The latest one being the movie guy here at the rez. Well, he doesn't really live here, he used to. But, that doesn't mean he isn't hear every night calling me "Ems." He waddles over here every week, lugging his Blue Ray player (he hates actual DVDs now) and plays Hollywood blockbusters that got universal good reviews. The projector is now set up and tuned to the Olympics only. The Olympics have made him particularly insane. He is the guy shouting and shaking his fist in the air, and slamming it on the table, with his other hand around the good snacks. His new plan is to bring over movies I like and have me watch them with him. This is a decent approach to winning me over. If you are a guy who listens when I speak, isn't anal retentive, and eats like a grown-up that would be better. Constantlky shaking your leg, sighing, singing along, and pretending to sleep while I am watching a movie with you would be excellent. Outlook: what comes after bleak--dismal? Although, I'd consider watching The Princess Bride, if he dropped it off and left.
This evening I read a script of my classmate's and realized that I am bragging bitch. So, I have a background in writing screenplays and am currently reading two books on how to write for television. But, knowing that my advanced background meant that I would probably fare better than my classmates in TV Writing class, doesn't stop me from getting oh-so-annoyed with their mistakes. I say in my head, "Really? Writing in camera angles on a non-shooting script, ha!" or "Really, you think your paragraphs of 'action' laden with flimsy adverbs is gonna happen?" On my wall I have a manifesto of what I want to do, how I should behave, and why I am in grad school (all things I constantly forget). I am considering adding in, "Don't be a judgemental bitch or no one will talk to you, which sounds appealing, but it won't be when you overhear that other people are having fun without your bitchy ass and the only person to laugh at your snobby judgements is yourself, and you don't think you are all that funny." The thing about manifestos are that they are well-intentioned, but never well-executed.
Question of the Day: If your friend always gives up the same thing for lent does that make her unoriginal or consistent?
Tip of the Day: Reading about how boring personal essays are is boring.
-Canadian Castaway
I went to breakfast this morning specifically to steal fruit. My plan was that I was going to take one more piece of fruit than I was allotted, and thus feel like a badass. (I know, sad, huh? It's come to this) When I got there I was met with two challenges: 1. The fruit wasn't the usual apples or pears, it was partially rotten bananas. 2. Squeezing the bananas proved to be great fun. This seems like it would not be the end of the world, right? Wrong. I had promised myself the rush of morning thievery and the bananas were fun to swish, but I had already swished all the bananas in the bin, plus not only would I have one rotten, inedible banana I would've had to deal with two. Solution: Steal bread instead. Good thing I am excellent in a crisis situation, making a major life decision is a difficult way to start your day.
After I unloaded my stolen bread I made a pot of coffee. It used to be that one cup of coffee, maybe two would do. It's gotten to the point that five cups are necessary for me to be able to move. Today, I made six cups and drank them all. This last increase terrifies me. Two years from now will I be able to support my 12 cup a day habit? Is it odd to get a sugar daddy to keep me in coffee?
After I spent hours making little marks on my script and drinking coffee I ventured out to buy trinkets for my friend back home. On the way I called up another friend who bitched that she wrote me a letter months ago that I had yet to respond to (I didn't remember her letter). Buying trinkets meant that I could go to the dollarstore. This store is jam-packed floor to ceiling with trinkets. The key is that most of them are total shit so you really have to search. The other major factor of shopping there is that due to the layout and the volume of shit the aisles are very small and you feel like a lardass milling around in there, but no so much of a lardass that you would start seriously dieting or not shop there. I was delighted to see that they had an entire section devoted to Canadian memorabilia.
A half hour later I walked out of there with everything from a maple leaf slap bracelet to a moose magnet. I even found a postcard to send to my whiny letter friend (seriously, tell people you are a writer and they will be ohh-so disappointed when you don't send them letters). The postcard was my favorite. They had a whole rack of soggy postcards out front on a rack in the rain. I flipped through pretty landscapes and the like, until I found one with a scary wolf on it and "Canada" in goofy letters superimposed on it's chest. I have never seen a wolf here, ever. Well, except on this postcard. If they were going for what you can actually see they should've put a raccoon sticking out of a dumpster on it.
I've acquired a freaky new hobby. I go onto facebook and look up people that I didn't really talk to in high school and spend an hour looking at not only their pictures, but their significant others pics. It's like I get high from it. I click through each picture and when I finally look away an hour has gone by and I feel like I am a predator. Then I got to thinking about it. I'm not the only creeper online. Judging from some of these photos these people live quite dull lives. Lives dull enough that they may spend hours crawling facebook photos as well. Wouldn't it be amazing if we were looking at each other's photos at the same time. Me thinking: God, his wife isn't so bad-looking. I bet I'd talk to her. Him thinking: Where the fuck is she? Not married, I knew it.
This doesn't mean I don' t have any prospects. The only problem is that my prospects make me question my sexuality. The latest one being the movie guy here at the rez. Well, he doesn't really live here, he used to. But, that doesn't mean he isn't hear every night calling me "Ems." He waddles over here every week, lugging his Blue Ray player (he hates actual DVDs now) and plays Hollywood blockbusters that got universal good reviews. The projector is now set up and tuned to the Olympics only. The Olympics have made him particularly insane. He is the guy shouting and shaking his fist in the air, and slamming it on the table, with his other hand around the good snacks. His new plan is to bring over movies I like and have me watch them with him. This is a decent approach to winning me over. If you are a guy who listens when I speak, isn't anal retentive, and eats like a grown-up that would be better. Constantlky shaking your leg, sighing, singing along, and pretending to sleep while I am watching a movie with you would be excellent. Outlook: what comes after bleak--dismal? Although, I'd consider watching The Princess Bride, if he dropped it off and left.
This evening I read a script of my classmate's and realized that I am bragging bitch. So, I have a background in writing screenplays and am currently reading two books on how to write for television. But, knowing that my advanced background meant that I would probably fare better than my classmates in TV Writing class, doesn't stop me from getting oh-so-annoyed with their mistakes. I say in my head, "Really? Writing in camera angles on a non-shooting script, ha!" or "Really, you think your paragraphs of 'action' laden with flimsy adverbs is gonna happen?" On my wall I have a manifesto of what I want to do, how I should behave, and why I am in grad school (all things I constantly forget). I am considering adding in, "Don't be a judgemental bitch or no one will talk to you, which sounds appealing, but it won't be when you overhear that other people are having fun without your bitchy ass and the only person to laugh at your snobby judgements is yourself, and you don't think you are all that funny." The thing about manifestos are that they are well-intentioned, but never well-executed.
Question of the Day: If your friend always gives up the same thing for lent does that make her unoriginal or consistent?
Tip of the Day: Reading about how boring personal essays are is boring.
-Canadian Castaway
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Bed Bugs vs. Meth, Beach Bitch, TV Right?, Loser Fest 2010, Makeout Game, Really, Raccoons are Bad
Day 183
Most of this morning was spent looking up bed bugs online, and then thinking I had bed bugs, and then flipping over my box spring and mattress, and then, vacuuming for an hour and half. During this time I found two actual bugs: 1. a silverfish and 2. a tiny spider. The other part of my morning was me talking online to someone who had bed bugs once, commanding me on what to do/look for. As it stands now I do not have bed bugs, but the little black dots found in my bed have yet to be determined. They could either be bed bug shit, or coffee grounds, or sand. All I know for sure is that my floor is super clean, both found bugs are quite dead, and I never want to look at insect pictures online ever again. Because after 5 minutes of looking your skin starts to get itchy because you think they are crawling all over you and you start overturning furniture and, well--it's pretty much what it's like to be a meth addict without the mild euphoria.
This afternoon after I put away the vacuum and closed all of the internet windows opened to bugs/infestations/bug shit/bites I went with a friend to the beach. The beach is covered with giant logs. My friend and I walked the logs across the beach surface, pretending the sand was lava. This was all fine until my arch nemesis from the rez showed up. She is the girl who hates AC/DC, has a name no one can pronounce, hates on Americans, and bitches--constantly. On the long walk up the stairs (nearly 500 steps) I passed the witch and it took her an extra two minutes to get by me. Take that. Small victories are fun, but calling out her bitchiness in front of the entire dining hall would be a blast. I think I'll have to watch a few dozen teen movies where the dorky girl calls out the popular girl. Or, I could just stick a hose under her door and release bees into it like on Rushmore and be done with it, cause you know that whiner is allergic to bees (pussy). The only problem is that if she lived she'd have one more thing to bitch about. I may just have to move out, there is no beating this bitch. Well, I could be all chipper around her and mispronounce her name, that may kill her faster than swarms of bees.
I told my mother just the other day that I want to be a TV writer. Today she tells me that she hates TV because all my dad does besides smoke is sit in front of the TV set. "I feel like a single woman," she said. Now I am conflicted. Should I stick with fiction and memoir to make my mother happy, though she and my father never read my work. Or, should I give my dad something to watch, thus making my mother a single woman. Hmm, being single ain't so bad.
At supper tonight there was no room at the table filled with my friends. My only seating options were to sit at a table with 2 guys I hate or sit at my own table. So, there I was chomping down my food at my own table, looking around at everyone laughing and stuffing their faces. I never bring a book to dinner when I need to. I grabbed a newspaper and pretended to read. I can't read a newspaper they are for boring grownups well, except for the funnies and horoscopes. I do like the obituaries, but you can only read so much death into a day. So there I was, eating carrots when a familiar face came by and said, "You are sitting alone, huh?" Then she walked over to the table full of my friend's without another word. Then, two guys sat at the far side of my very large, empty table and didn't say a word to me. Maybe next time I will just take my tray to my room and watch youtube videos. Damn asshole lunchroom dramas. Well, maybe my life will be like all those high school flicks where the losers will grow into cool people later on. What they don't show you is that most of them are cool people, but still resentful of those assholes who wouldn't sit at their lunch table.
Tonight I discovered that this particular Canadian city has many drive-in and makeout spots. Sadly, I wasn't on a sucking face tour of them, but I did invent a new sport of it. While my friends and I drove past all of the parked cars I decided that if I am ever bored in the evenings all I have to do to cure this boredom is find a car. The only thing nearly as fun as necking in a parked car is driving up and shining high beams at those necking in parked cars. Note: In some cases this game is much more fun than necking in a parked car. If you are really clever, you will sneak up without lights on, have a co-pilot hanging out the window with a camera at the ready, blast the high beams on, race out of there, and post the pics online.
Now, I know that I have bellyached about raccoons, but this is ridiculous. So, when my friends and I were cruising around the makeout spots, not making out we pulled off the road to go take pictures of the night sky. As we pulled up a raccoon sat there staring for us, just waiting for us to get outside of the car. I flipped out when the little beast did not seem to go away. My friends thought he was cute. I wanted to shoot him. Seriously, the only thing keeping a raccoon from being a rodent is that occasionally they eat meat. Plus, my friends seemed like they had never even heard the word rabies before. Then, one of them described a raccoon attack that happened to a friend of ours. They still acted like it was a sin that I didn't want to cuddle with the nasty thing. It's funny, people can be deathly afraid of many things, like clowns for example, and they get understanding. But, when I am afraid/hating on something I come out like an insensitive gun-wielding asshole. Now, the little bastards are making me lose my friends. Those motherfuckers better watch their backs, or I'll make a hat outta their tails.
Tip of the Day: I read online that the secret to being healthy is to eat green stuff and move muscles until they hurt. (But, I like orange stuff.)
-Canadian Castaway
Most of this morning was spent looking up bed bugs online, and then thinking I had bed bugs, and then flipping over my box spring and mattress, and then, vacuuming for an hour and half. During this time I found two actual bugs: 1. a silverfish and 2. a tiny spider. The other part of my morning was me talking online to someone who had bed bugs once, commanding me on what to do/look for. As it stands now I do not have bed bugs, but the little black dots found in my bed have yet to be determined. They could either be bed bug shit, or coffee grounds, or sand. All I know for sure is that my floor is super clean, both found bugs are quite dead, and I never want to look at insect pictures online ever again. Because after 5 minutes of looking your skin starts to get itchy because you think they are crawling all over you and you start overturning furniture and, well--it's pretty much what it's like to be a meth addict without the mild euphoria.
This afternoon after I put away the vacuum and closed all of the internet windows opened to bugs/infestations/bug shit/bites I went with a friend to the beach. The beach is covered with giant logs. My friend and I walked the logs across the beach surface, pretending the sand was lava. This was all fine until my arch nemesis from the rez showed up. She is the girl who hates AC/DC, has a name no one can pronounce, hates on Americans, and bitches--constantly. On the long walk up the stairs (nearly 500 steps) I passed the witch and it took her an extra two minutes to get by me. Take that. Small victories are fun, but calling out her bitchiness in front of the entire dining hall would be a blast. I think I'll have to watch a few dozen teen movies where the dorky girl calls out the popular girl. Or, I could just stick a hose under her door and release bees into it like on Rushmore and be done with it, cause you know that whiner is allergic to bees (pussy). The only problem is that if she lived she'd have one more thing to bitch about. I may just have to move out, there is no beating this bitch. Well, I could be all chipper around her and mispronounce her name, that may kill her faster than swarms of bees.
I told my mother just the other day that I want to be a TV writer. Today she tells me that she hates TV because all my dad does besides smoke is sit in front of the TV set. "I feel like a single woman," she said. Now I am conflicted. Should I stick with fiction and memoir to make my mother happy, though she and my father never read my work. Or, should I give my dad something to watch, thus making my mother a single woman. Hmm, being single ain't so bad.
At supper tonight there was no room at the table filled with my friends. My only seating options were to sit at a table with 2 guys I hate or sit at my own table. So, there I was chomping down my food at my own table, looking around at everyone laughing and stuffing their faces. I never bring a book to dinner when I need to. I grabbed a newspaper and pretended to read. I can't read a newspaper they are for boring grownups well, except for the funnies and horoscopes. I do like the obituaries, but you can only read so much death into a day. So there I was, eating carrots when a familiar face came by and said, "You are sitting alone, huh?" Then she walked over to the table full of my friend's without another word. Then, two guys sat at the far side of my very large, empty table and didn't say a word to me. Maybe next time I will just take my tray to my room and watch youtube videos. Damn asshole lunchroom dramas. Well, maybe my life will be like all those high school flicks where the losers will grow into cool people later on. What they don't show you is that most of them are cool people, but still resentful of those assholes who wouldn't sit at their lunch table.
Tonight I discovered that this particular Canadian city has many drive-in and makeout spots. Sadly, I wasn't on a sucking face tour of them, but I did invent a new sport of it. While my friends and I drove past all of the parked cars I decided that if I am ever bored in the evenings all I have to do to cure this boredom is find a car. The only thing nearly as fun as necking in a parked car is driving up and shining high beams at those necking in parked cars. Note: In some cases this game is much more fun than necking in a parked car. If you are really clever, you will sneak up without lights on, have a co-pilot hanging out the window with a camera at the ready, blast the high beams on, race out of there, and post the pics online.
Now, I know that I have bellyached about raccoons, but this is ridiculous. So, when my friends and I were cruising around the makeout spots, not making out we pulled off the road to go take pictures of the night sky. As we pulled up a raccoon sat there staring for us, just waiting for us to get outside of the car. I flipped out when the little beast did not seem to go away. My friends thought he was cute. I wanted to shoot him. Seriously, the only thing keeping a raccoon from being a rodent is that occasionally they eat meat. Plus, my friends seemed like they had never even heard the word rabies before. Then, one of them described a raccoon attack that happened to a friend of ours. They still acted like it was a sin that I didn't want to cuddle with the nasty thing. It's funny, people can be deathly afraid of many things, like clowns for example, and they get understanding. But, when I am afraid/hating on something I come out like an insensitive gun-wielding asshole. Now, the little bastards are making me lose my friends. Those motherfuckers better watch their backs, or I'll make a hat outta their tails.
Tip of the Day: I read online that the secret to being healthy is to eat green stuff and move muscles until they hurt. (But, I like orange stuff.)
-Canadian Castaway
No More Drama...For Now, Canada vs. U.S., Amish Kids, Unwanted Siblings, The Important Things in Life
Day 182
The saga of me and the Valentines Day disaster date was finally drawn to a finish this morning. I couldn't take not saying anything anymore so I sent him a message asking him why he ditched out on me after he called me ohhh so special for months. He pulled the "I didn't know it was a date"/"You are special to me" card on me so I pulled the trump, "I think we are better as friends." Apparently, he was holding the higher trump as he responded with the, "I agree" card. Then I forgot what was so fun about playing cards and still wanted to egg his door.
Today I went to a local pub to see the Canada vs. Russia hockey game. The entire place was crawling with Canadians who popped up after every goal scored. This turned out to be quite the workout with 7 goals in total. After I knew that Canada was going to win (first half of the first period it was pretty obvious) I got bored with the whole thing. The only exciting thing was looking across the table at the "I love you if you are thin and female" guy from my rez thinking, "I can't wait until the U.S. stomps you for the medal." Thinking this was fun but saying to a friend at dinner, quite loudly, "I want the U.S. to play Canada for the medal so I can literally shove (insert assholes name here) in the fucking dirt," was much better, especially when I realized that he was sitting just a few seats away. But seriously, "shove his face in the dirt" where do I come up with this shit. Is that threatening?
So this evening was spent watching a documentary about Rumspringa. Rumspringa (according to the documentary) is when Amish kids turn 16 and all start smoking cigarettes, living in trailers, fucking around, getting drunk, driving shitty cars, and taking drugs. So basically, the Amish people let their kids go out and be kids, but here's the catch--when I was out raising hell as a teen I wasn't afraid that I was actually going to hell. These kids are doing all of this crazy stuff and some of them even look the part of a normal American teen except that there is an expiration date on their fun, one that makes them decide whether or not they want to pledge to the church (one Amish man said that being Amish is to stop questioning and give up) and go to heaven and still be in touch with their families or go out into the wild world and fend for yourself and go to hell. My question is: what exactly do these kids imagine hell to be like? It must be pretty terrible if around 90% of these kids go back and pledge to the church. But, that other 10%, what does their hell look like?
I watched the documentary with a few friends in the TV room of my rez hall. During the movie the girl that I cannot stand decided that she should come in and watch the flick as well. This would've been okay except that instead of watching the movie she was talking on and on about things that we a. already knew or b. didn't care about. Seriously, I would rather watch movies on my laptop than deal with her comments. I should send her on a Rumspringa maybe the know-it-all would lighten up and shut the hell up if she was boozed and drugged. Watching movies in the TV room here is like having brothers and sisters who come into the room when you have friends over, except you can't beat them up and there over a 100 of them.
After the documentary two of my friends stuck around and we surfed channels and talked. We covered a wide range of topics including:
-How ridiculous Spin Gym machines are.
-How we love infomericals. My favorite the Ron Jeremy penile enlargement pill one.
-What the exact rules of Supermarket Sweep were.
-How there is no cake decorating show on when you need it.
-The Killer Whale that actually kills people is ironic and scary.
-How many women Gene Simmons has slept with. This I had to look up when I got back to my room: around 4600.
-How someone from Arkansa is called a: Arkansan.
-Octomom and whether or not she is insane and how insane is she and how disgusting her lips are.
-How sad it would be to be the guy from the boot-your-car show.
-We watched a blonde Jodie Sweetin look-alike newscaster to see her fake smile.
-How I think the Bounty Hunter dude is kinda cute. (Nobody ever agrees with me)
As you can see we pretty much just covered the essentials.
Tip of the Day: Don't wear the hat everyone is passing around at the dinner table because you risk not only head lice, but someone calling you a trucker and meaning it.
-Canadian Castaway
The saga of me and the Valentines Day disaster date was finally drawn to a finish this morning. I couldn't take not saying anything anymore so I sent him a message asking him why he ditched out on me after he called me ohhh so special for months. He pulled the "I didn't know it was a date"/"You are special to me" card on me so I pulled the trump, "I think we are better as friends." Apparently, he was holding the higher trump as he responded with the, "I agree" card. Then I forgot what was so fun about playing cards and still wanted to egg his door.
Today I went to a local pub to see the Canada vs. Russia hockey game. The entire place was crawling with Canadians who popped up after every goal scored. This turned out to be quite the workout with 7 goals in total. After I knew that Canada was going to win (first half of the first period it was pretty obvious) I got bored with the whole thing. The only exciting thing was looking across the table at the "I love you if you are thin and female" guy from my rez thinking, "I can't wait until the U.S. stomps you for the medal." Thinking this was fun but saying to a friend at dinner, quite loudly, "I want the U.S. to play Canada for the medal so I can literally shove (insert assholes name here) in the fucking dirt," was much better, especially when I realized that he was sitting just a few seats away. But seriously, "shove his face in the dirt" where do I come up with this shit. Is that threatening?
So this evening was spent watching a documentary about Rumspringa. Rumspringa (according to the documentary) is when Amish kids turn 16 and all start smoking cigarettes, living in trailers, fucking around, getting drunk, driving shitty cars, and taking drugs. So basically, the Amish people let their kids go out and be kids, but here's the catch--when I was out raising hell as a teen I wasn't afraid that I was actually going to hell. These kids are doing all of this crazy stuff and some of them even look the part of a normal American teen except that there is an expiration date on their fun, one that makes them decide whether or not they want to pledge to the church (one Amish man said that being Amish is to stop questioning and give up) and go to heaven and still be in touch with their families or go out into the wild world and fend for yourself and go to hell. My question is: what exactly do these kids imagine hell to be like? It must be pretty terrible if around 90% of these kids go back and pledge to the church. But, that other 10%, what does their hell look like?
I watched the documentary with a few friends in the TV room of my rez hall. During the movie the girl that I cannot stand decided that she should come in and watch the flick as well. This would've been okay except that instead of watching the movie she was talking on and on about things that we a. already knew or b. didn't care about. Seriously, I would rather watch movies on my laptop than deal with her comments. I should send her on a Rumspringa maybe the know-it-all would lighten up and shut the hell up if she was boozed and drugged. Watching movies in the TV room here is like having brothers and sisters who come into the room when you have friends over, except you can't beat them up and there over a 100 of them.
After the documentary two of my friends stuck around and we surfed channels and talked. We covered a wide range of topics including:
-How ridiculous Spin Gym machines are.
-How we love infomericals. My favorite the Ron Jeremy penile enlargement pill one.
-What the exact rules of Supermarket Sweep were.
-How there is no cake decorating show on when you need it.
-The Killer Whale that actually kills people is ironic and scary.
-How many women Gene Simmons has slept with. This I had to look up when I got back to my room: around 4600.
-How someone from Arkansa is called a: Arkansan.
-Octomom and whether or not she is insane and how insane is she and how disgusting her lips are.
-How sad it would be to be the guy from the boot-your-car show.
-We watched a blonde Jodie Sweetin look-alike newscaster to see her fake smile.
-How I think the Bounty Hunter dude is kinda cute. (Nobody ever agrees with me)
As you can see we pretty much just covered the essentials.
Tip of the Day: Don't wear the hat everyone is passing around at the dinner table because you risk not only head lice, but someone calling you a trucker and meaning it.
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Mourning Morning, Rowling and Rowling and Rowling, Teasing Tea, Super McFlurry, Valentines Disaster Continues, Evening Excitement
Day 181
I've decided to take a new approach to residence hall communal breakfasts: bring a book and an I-pod. Also, I think instead of choosing the table with the most people I know I will choose one with the least amount of people I know and not talk to them so they will stay that way. If this tactic goes well I may continue it into supper. I don't hate people, I just hate talking to people. Anyway, the whole point in me even waking up for breakfast, besides eating what I pay for, is to get some "work" done. Work as in writing and/or reading my course materials. What getting up for breakfast actually involves is me looking at the clock and thinking, 'Damn, it's early. I could watch an episode of Gilmore Girls and still have time to be productive.' What I never realize is that doing this will lead to watching over an hour of youtube videos, looking at the clock and thinking, 'Shit, it's lunch time.'
The youtube videos of today consisted of an interview series with author, JK Rowling. Now, I have never read an entire book of Harry Potter, but I find her rags to riches tale quite appealing. I learned quite a few things from watching these interviews with JK, but perhaps the most valuable thing I learned is that when you click onto a youtube video that says "Part 1" and "BBC" expect that there will be around 7 parts and each part will be 8 minutes long. Holy shit, I didn't know what I was getting myself into. But, I stuck it out until the end. And, I also watched her famous Harvard commencement speech as well (all three parts). Does this make me a Rowling addict, or am I just avoiding life (trick is, they are one in the same)?
So today I started drinking. No, not alcohol, I've been doing that since I was 14. I am talking tea. I drank 5 different varieties of tea. Let me tell you, tea is way cheaper than booze but it doesn't make you crazed, it just makes you feel like a yuppie. I just hope that I don't turn into one of those prissies who spends 10 bucks a gram at a special store. I think I'm alright as long as I stick to the pre-bagged bullshit. The only problem is that teabags can lead to harder stuff like loose leaf and snobbery. But, I could make a killing starting a for profit support group.
The only other beverage (well, besides the 5 cups of coffee that get me to move in the morning, okay 6) I had today was an ice cream one filled with candy bits. I walked 8 blocks in the rain to get a McFlurry. And, if that isn't bad enough, I wrote about it on my facebook status update and as my gmail chat custom text. Should I be proud of the fact that I walked a considerable distance in the rain to get a treat at McDonalds? Probably not. But one day the world will see that it is my super power. I will be the newest superhero on the block. I will be Super Addicted to McFlurrys Girl and I will have a costume with stretchy purple tights and a pocketful of coupons for free McFlurrys. Now all I gotta do is wait for my time to come and think about how my abilities could save the world.
Okay, so the guy that I had the disasterous date of the century date with is still not taking the hints that I am not speaking to him. For some reason being really snappy on chat and outright ignoring him in person doesn't take ahold. He is someone who has multiple advanced degrees and therefore is an example of how fucked up education makes some people. My bodyguard/life coach told me that I need to tell him I am not talking to him or he will just keep bothering me. I have yet to do this for fear it start with me giving him a lecture on everything he has done wrong (which could easily take a whole day of non-stop yammering) and end with me punching him in the eye before I get to the I-never-want-to-talk-to-you-again-dumbass part. It's times like this that I wish I had a body double to do my dirty work. Perhaps I could take the hands off approach though and just egg his door, spraypaint my initials on it and leave a garden gnome. A few friends of mine from high school used to commit random acts of vandalism and had a trunkfull of stolen garden gnomes and they left one at the scene of every crime as their calling card. Somehow this seems appropriate, and badass to me but I am afraid he still won't take the hint.
So instead of going across town to a Holland-themed party with friends I decided to stay home, put on my PJs before 8:30 and watch TV online. The highlight of my evening was facebook chatting with a friend about sex toys (she's 'not picky') and her grandkid. My other chat conversations were 1. swapping Lady Gaga lyrics and 2. my friend telling me that Lady Gaga is "the worst assault on pop music since the Spice Girls..." I can't tell if that is good or bad. In my evening of fun I also looked up McFlurry on wikipedia which came up under the heading, McDonald's Products. Under the McFlurry there was a list called, "Discontinued menu items." I spent 30 minutes reading through this graveyard of delights. Here are a few favorites, McDLT, McFeast, McDogs, McLean Deluxe, McPizza, and McStuffin. Along with the Mc items my favorite from the list is called a hulaburger. The hulaburger was a slab of pineapple on a bun created for catholics to eat during lent.
Tip of the Day: Liking someone solely based on the fact that they have a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle smile isn't wrong.
-Canadian Castaway
I've decided to take a new approach to residence hall communal breakfasts: bring a book and an I-pod. Also, I think instead of choosing the table with the most people I know I will choose one with the least amount of people I know and not talk to them so they will stay that way. If this tactic goes well I may continue it into supper. I don't hate people, I just hate talking to people. Anyway, the whole point in me even waking up for breakfast, besides eating what I pay for, is to get some "work" done. Work as in writing and/or reading my course materials. What getting up for breakfast actually involves is me looking at the clock and thinking, 'Damn, it's early. I could watch an episode of Gilmore Girls and still have time to be productive.' What I never realize is that doing this will lead to watching over an hour of youtube videos, looking at the clock and thinking, 'Shit, it's lunch time.'
The youtube videos of today consisted of an interview series with author, JK Rowling. Now, I have never read an entire book of Harry Potter, but I find her rags to riches tale quite appealing. I learned quite a few things from watching these interviews with JK, but perhaps the most valuable thing I learned is that when you click onto a youtube video that says "Part 1" and "BBC" expect that there will be around 7 parts and each part will be 8 minutes long. Holy shit, I didn't know what I was getting myself into. But, I stuck it out until the end. And, I also watched her famous Harvard commencement speech as well (all three parts). Does this make me a Rowling addict, or am I just avoiding life (trick is, they are one in the same)?
So today I started drinking. No, not alcohol, I've been doing that since I was 14. I am talking tea. I drank 5 different varieties of tea. Let me tell you, tea is way cheaper than booze but it doesn't make you crazed, it just makes you feel like a yuppie. I just hope that I don't turn into one of those prissies who spends 10 bucks a gram at a special store. I think I'm alright as long as I stick to the pre-bagged bullshit. The only problem is that teabags can lead to harder stuff like loose leaf and snobbery. But, I could make a killing starting a for profit support group.
The only other beverage (well, besides the 5 cups of coffee that get me to move in the morning, okay 6) I had today was an ice cream one filled with candy bits. I walked 8 blocks in the rain to get a McFlurry. And, if that isn't bad enough, I wrote about it on my facebook status update and as my gmail chat custom text. Should I be proud of the fact that I walked a considerable distance in the rain to get a treat at McDonalds? Probably not. But one day the world will see that it is my super power. I will be the newest superhero on the block. I will be Super Addicted to McFlurrys Girl and I will have a costume with stretchy purple tights and a pocketful of coupons for free McFlurrys. Now all I gotta do is wait for my time to come and think about how my abilities could save the world.
Okay, so the guy that I had the disasterous date of the century date with is still not taking the hints that I am not speaking to him. For some reason being really snappy on chat and outright ignoring him in person doesn't take ahold. He is someone who has multiple advanced degrees and therefore is an example of how fucked up education makes some people. My bodyguard/life coach told me that I need to tell him I am not talking to him or he will just keep bothering me. I have yet to do this for fear it start with me giving him a lecture on everything he has done wrong (which could easily take a whole day of non-stop yammering) and end with me punching him in the eye before I get to the I-never-want-to-talk-to-you-again-dumbass part. It's times like this that I wish I had a body double to do my dirty work. Perhaps I could take the hands off approach though and just egg his door, spraypaint my initials on it and leave a garden gnome. A few friends of mine from high school used to commit random acts of vandalism and had a trunkfull of stolen garden gnomes and they left one at the scene of every crime as their calling card. Somehow this seems appropriate, and badass to me but I am afraid he still won't take the hint.
So instead of going across town to a Holland-themed party with friends I decided to stay home, put on my PJs before 8:30 and watch TV online. The highlight of my evening was facebook chatting with a friend about sex toys (she's 'not picky') and her grandkid. My other chat conversations were 1. swapping Lady Gaga lyrics and 2. my friend telling me that Lady Gaga is "the worst assault on pop music since the Spice Girls..." I can't tell if that is good or bad. In my evening of fun I also looked up McFlurry on wikipedia which came up under the heading, McDonald's Products. Under the McFlurry there was a list called, "Discontinued menu items." I spent 30 minutes reading through this graveyard of delights. Here are a few favorites, McDLT, McFeast, McDogs, McLean Deluxe, McPizza, and McStuffin. Along with the Mc items my favorite from the list is called a hulaburger. The hulaburger was a slab of pineapple on a bun created for catholics to eat during lent.
Tip of the Day: Liking someone solely based on the fact that they have a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle smile isn't wrong.
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, February 22, 2010
Library Sweep, Bird Yelling, New Drug, My Future in Meat, Having Fun?
Day 180
Today I went to three libraries.
Library number 1: This was the Education library where I find all these wacky young adult books I like to read. But, today's purpose there was to return books as this is the closest branch of the library as books are heavy. I returned two books one a young adult book and another an adult novel from another library branch on campus. The second book made me feel the slightest bit lazy as I was going to the branch where it came from but didn't want to lug it around--this is now my old way of thinking. My new way of thinking is that by me being lazy I am helping mankind as someone will have to sort that book into a different bin, someone will have to haul it to the proper library and someone at the proper library will have to put it on a shelving cart and someone else will have to put it away. See, I just helped 4 people have jobs.
Library number 2: This was the Science/Medical-ish library on campus that allegedly held a book of memoir I want to read about some dude growing up on a farm. I got into the library and poked around each floor taking note that it smelled musty (the good book rotting smell I am addicted to) there was virtually no one there, and there were tables and chairs in there from the 1960's which meant that they were orange. The book I wanted was located in a section designated for fisheries. When I got there the book wasn't actually there and two people helped me look for it until the search was aborted. The old man at the front desk in the Jimi Hendrix tee shirt and flannel handed me a form to fill out in case they found the book they would contact me. The form asked my name and "address" the man leaned over and said, "That means email address now--damn forms are 20 years old." I thought, hmm, they are newer than the chairs.
Library number 3: This is my favorite library. I love this library so much that I took a picture of it, had that picture printed, and it now hangs on my wall above my bed. This is the giant library full of books of literature and art among other things. I popped in there and found a section of books regarding how to write for television. This would have been extremely helpful had any of these books been published in this century. A lot has changed since the days of typewriters and Leave it to Beaver or has it? Anyway, I milled around and played my favorite library game: find the oldest book you can, smell it, and read from it. Yeah, I know I live an exciting and dangerous life. The book I found was from the mid-1800s and they spelled Korea as "Corea." And, the beginning was a Queen's speech about World Powers. I don't remember much after that. Guess you had to be there.
Alright it's official, my destiny has manifested itself. One day I was an innocent child with cute sunglasses in a pink tutu and now, now I am a woman who hollers at birds. There I was sitting outside the third library of the day eating a pastrami and avocado on dark rye, I looked up and a seagull was staring at me looking hungry. The old me would've found this adorable. The new (scarier) me yelled, "Go away!" and stomped my feet at the creature. I made sure the bastard didn't get a crumb of my precious sandwich and I even scowled at the goddamn tourist who came by and snapped a photo of the bird. When they say you can grow up to be anything that you want to be they leave out the, but you'll probably become something that would terrify yourself. The worst part is that the mother effing bird wasn't even scared off, it just stood there reminding me of who I had become.
Today I found a new form of hypnosis: Ice Dancing. I know I've bitched about Ice Dancing in the past (just yesterday for example), but I think I've discovered the possibilities involved with Ice Dance viewing. Seriously, it's so hypnotic. After a few minutes, you actually zone out and go into an altered state of being. My recommendation, if you want to get high, is not to watch it when the cutesy Canadian team is on, they are too good which pulls you back to reality. It is also not recommended that you watch it in a room filled with people, especially if those people include a fanatical Canadian known as a medal hunter, a girl who says "Shindler's List" seven hundred times, someone you've heard talked shit behind your back and you want to talk to but can't, and the guy who jacked up your Valentine's Day. If you can remove these obstacles you can be transported into a comfortable stupor well, until you come up for air and realize that, that woman on the screen is dressed up as a "Firebird."
Today was an extra special supper. There was a choice of crabmeat and salmon pie or sausage and onion pie. Since I am afraid of crabmeat I chose the sausage and onion. This turned out to be literally a pie crust filled with pieces of kielbasa-esque sausage. What a brilliant idea. I guess if none of my scripts sell I can move to Andorra (pretty people central) and open a sausage pie cafe. Who knew that tonight's meat pie could predict my future. Fuck tea leaves, I can read my fortune in sausage chunks.
My mother told me that she was trying to think of something fun to do. She asked my opinion. I said, "If I knew of something fun to do I would be doing it right now." Then I googled, "what are some fun things to do." The first thing on the list was bored.com. Is that supposed to be ironic? The front page of the site has games with names like, The Gun Game, Papa's Pizzeria, and my personal favorite: Bubble Guinea Pop. Apparently the last one is a game featuring guinea pigs and bubble gum. Now, I am not really sure the last time I had fun, but I do know that it did not involve guns, pizza, or guinea pigs. Maybe I'm just doing it wrong.
Tip of the Day: Animals would be a whole lot cuter if they didn't shit.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I went to three libraries.
Library number 1: This was the Education library where I find all these wacky young adult books I like to read. But, today's purpose there was to return books as this is the closest branch of the library as books are heavy. I returned two books one a young adult book and another an adult novel from another library branch on campus. The second book made me feel the slightest bit lazy as I was going to the branch where it came from but didn't want to lug it around--this is now my old way of thinking. My new way of thinking is that by me being lazy I am helping mankind as someone will have to sort that book into a different bin, someone will have to haul it to the proper library and someone at the proper library will have to put it on a shelving cart and someone else will have to put it away. See, I just helped 4 people have jobs.
Library number 2: This was the Science/Medical-ish library on campus that allegedly held a book of memoir I want to read about some dude growing up on a farm. I got into the library and poked around each floor taking note that it smelled musty (the good book rotting smell I am addicted to) there was virtually no one there, and there were tables and chairs in there from the 1960's which meant that they were orange. The book I wanted was located in a section designated for fisheries. When I got there the book wasn't actually there and two people helped me look for it until the search was aborted. The old man at the front desk in the Jimi Hendrix tee shirt and flannel handed me a form to fill out in case they found the book they would contact me. The form asked my name and "address" the man leaned over and said, "That means email address now--damn forms are 20 years old." I thought, hmm, they are newer than the chairs.
Library number 3: This is my favorite library. I love this library so much that I took a picture of it, had that picture printed, and it now hangs on my wall above my bed. This is the giant library full of books of literature and art among other things. I popped in there and found a section of books regarding how to write for television. This would have been extremely helpful had any of these books been published in this century. A lot has changed since the days of typewriters and Leave it to Beaver or has it? Anyway, I milled around and played my favorite library game: find the oldest book you can, smell it, and read from it. Yeah, I know I live an exciting and dangerous life. The book I found was from the mid-1800s and they spelled Korea as "Corea." And, the beginning was a Queen's speech about World Powers. I don't remember much after that. Guess you had to be there.
Alright it's official, my destiny has manifested itself. One day I was an innocent child with cute sunglasses in a pink tutu and now, now I am a woman who hollers at birds. There I was sitting outside the third library of the day eating a pastrami and avocado on dark rye, I looked up and a seagull was staring at me looking hungry. The old me would've found this adorable. The new (scarier) me yelled, "Go away!" and stomped my feet at the creature. I made sure the bastard didn't get a crumb of my precious sandwich and I even scowled at the goddamn tourist who came by and snapped a photo of the bird. When they say you can grow up to be anything that you want to be they leave out the, but you'll probably become something that would terrify yourself. The worst part is that the mother effing bird wasn't even scared off, it just stood there reminding me of who I had become.
Today I found a new form of hypnosis: Ice Dancing. I know I've bitched about Ice Dancing in the past (just yesterday for example), but I think I've discovered the possibilities involved with Ice Dance viewing. Seriously, it's so hypnotic. After a few minutes, you actually zone out and go into an altered state of being. My recommendation, if you want to get high, is not to watch it when the cutesy Canadian team is on, they are too good which pulls you back to reality. It is also not recommended that you watch it in a room filled with people, especially if those people include a fanatical Canadian known as a medal hunter, a girl who says "Shindler's List" seven hundred times, someone you've heard talked shit behind your back and you want to talk to but can't, and the guy who jacked up your Valentine's Day. If you can remove these obstacles you can be transported into a comfortable stupor well, until you come up for air and realize that, that woman on the screen is dressed up as a "Firebird."
Today was an extra special supper. There was a choice of crabmeat and salmon pie or sausage and onion pie. Since I am afraid of crabmeat I chose the sausage and onion. This turned out to be literally a pie crust filled with pieces of kielbasa-esque sausage. What a brilliant idea. I guess if none of my scripts sell I can move to Andorra (pretty people central) and open a sausage pie cafe. Who knew that tonight's meat pie could predict my future. Fuck tea leaves, I can read my fortune in sausage chunks.
My mother told me that she was trying to think of something fun to do. She asked my opinion. I said, "If I knew of something fun to do I would be doing it right now." Then I googled, "what are some fun things to do." The first thing on the list was bored.com. Is that supposed to be ironic? The front page of the site has games with names like, The Gun Game, Papa's Pizzeria, and my personal favorite: Bubble Guinea Pop. Apparently the last one is a game featuring guinea pigs and bubble gum. Now, I am not really sure the last time I had fun, but I do know that it did not involve guns, pizza, or guinea pigs. Maybe I'm just doing it wrong.
Tip of the Day: Animals would be a whole lot cuter if they didn't shit.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Creative Writing is Being Able to Dine in an Adult Restaurant, Clothing Optional Beaching, USA!, Ice Dancing = Nap Time
Day 179
All of my morning was spent trying to find unique arguments on why children shouldn't be allowed in adult restaurants. Sure you got your usual: they are messy and loud. But what makes you a grad student is a Creative Writing program are recognizing things like:
-They don't want to be there. Duh, that is why they are shitasses, well, unless their parents have poorly trained them at existing in social environments. What's in it for the kids? All this sitting around and acting good would make anyone boring.
-They make servers less efficient with the customary "Tell the server what you want sweetie" and ten minutes passes until the parent orders for them. I know you are trying to get them to act for themselves, but seriously, they can't even read a goddamn menu maybe you should focus on them not pissing in your pants before you worry about them articulating their food choices that you have chosen for them anyhow.
-The parents go through the continuous stress of feeding them, making sure they behave and dealing with an entire restaurant judging them as people based on their child's behavior. Who needs that added stress when you can leave the brats home with a nephew who you underpay or better yet drop them at grandmas they can stay there for free and get fed. If you insist on taking them out at least take them to a restaurant with a playland full of other kids who are much naughtier than your own so that you look good and feel like you are doing an excellent job of parenting. No stress lines there just confidence building.
-Kids that do behave in restaurants are freakish mini-adults who lose their childhood to being good. Seriously, their imaginations will be killed eventually let them keep them until then. And if not have them move out and get jobs.
And some people think that a Creative Writing degree is just a breeze where you get to sit around all day and think silly ideas and occasionally write them down and play. Ha! At least we can eat in adult restaurants (though we probably shouldn't).
The next part of my day was spent lying around on a clothing optional beach (fully clothed). Here a few highlights and observations:
-Why is it that going to this beach always makes me try to imagine what it would be like to have a penis? It's one thing to wonder what it would be like to have a penis, but when you are at this particular beach there is such a variety. You find yourself thinking: If I had that flopsy penis or if I had that stubby, fat dagger penis, or that tiny two marbles taped together-looking penis...
-After awhile you realize that you have to pee and there are porta potties. These look harmless enough but it takes four tries to hold your breath enough to close the door and when you get back outside you spit for 15 minutes swearing that the urine in the air from other people's piss absorbed on your tongue and then you think that you should've gone in the bushes like you used to do at drunken teenage bonfire parties. But then you realize that you are a. No longer a teenager. b. It is not dark outside. c. And most importantly, you are not drunk.
-Prepare to spend a good hour wondering two things:
1. Where did all of those naked people get that giant piece of tinfoil they are standing in? Is there some sort of nudie-on-the-beach supply store in town?
2. What would the line up of nudies in tinfoil do if you took their photograph? It looks like they are at some wacky photoshoot already with all this standing around and posing. Maybe that's what they want. Then prepare to spend an extra 15 minutes on: why would I take their picture? They are not exactly good-looking (see marble penis above). Would I print the pictures and put them on my wall as conversation pieces? No, because then I couldn't sleep at night. What the fuck would I do with their pictures? Oh yeah, use them for my Christmas cards.
-After awhile you will notice all sorts of seagulls around--you know, the type of bird that you saw snacking on another bird last week. They will look huge and pretty at first in their long overhead swooping until you realize that they are shitting on whatever is below them nearly the entire time they are airborne. But the best part about realizing they are shitting is making a running commentary on it like it were an Olympic sport. "And on the left we have--ohh, near miss on the kid there." "Good form. Nice execution. He nailed it!"
-The best part about the beach besides finding random garbage and animal parts in the sand is when you see a naked Dad yelling at his clothed toddler. "Miles! Get back here and finish your sandwich." "Miles what did Daddy tell you?!" This kid is quite young, but old enough to realize that if you have some naked guy yelling at you, you don't have to listen. Now this may not seem all that exciting at first, but if you imagine this kid growing up going to the beach with his naked Dad it could get quite humorous, the teenage years in particular.
After my beach excursion there was a slushie retrieval and I settled in to watch the US hockey team cream Canada. All I have to say is thank God they did or all the shit talking I did when they were tied up in the second period would've made me look like a fool. II should send them a thank you card. Before the big game it is said that US hockey players were saying that they hated the Canadian team. My crowning moment today was when I stood up at the end of the game, pointed to the nearest Canadian and declared, "See that's what hatred gets you--a win!" Well, at least this was supposed to be my crowning moment, I didn't feel so victorious afterward. I was feeling sort of hateful towards toward the Canadian after his non-response to my nasty remark. Now I am just waiting to see what my hatred gets me.
All I have to say about today is that I want my hour back that I spent watching Olympic Ice Dancing. Turns out Ice Dancing is just code for: Dipsticks in stupid outfits on ice that don't even do any cool tricks or fall down. Honestly, they make bowling look like a theme park adventure ride. I am going to blame the Ice Dancers on me eating too many Cheetos tonight, out of a depression-laced state of boredom.
Tip of the Day: Pretzels suck, it's okay to admit it.
-Canadian Castaway
All of my morning was spent trying to find unique arguments on why children shouldn't be allowed in adult restaurants. Sure you got your usual: they are messy and loud. But what makes you a grad student is a Creative Writing program are recognizing things like:
-They don't want to be there. Duh, that is why they are shitasses, well, unless their parents have poorly trained them at existing in social environments. What's in it for the kids? All this sitting around and acting good would make anyone boring.
-They make servers less efficient with the customary "Tell the server what you want sweetie" and ten minutes passes until the parent orders for them. I know you are trying to get them to act for themselves, but seriously, they can't even read a goddamn menu maybe you should focus on them not pissing in your pants before you worry about them articulating their food choices that you have chosen for them anyhow.
-The parents go through the continuous stress of feeding them, making sure they behave and dealing with an entire restaurant judging them as people based on their child's behavior. Who needs that added stress when you can leave the brats home with a nephew who you underpay or better yet drop them at grandmas they can stay there for free and get fed. If you insist on taking them out at least take them to a restaurant with a playland full of other kids who are much naughtier than your own so that you look good and feel like you are doing an excellent job of parenting. No stress lines there just confidence building.
-Kids that do behave in restaurants are freakish mini-adults who lose their childhood to being good. Seriously, their imaginations will be killed eventually let them keep them until then. And if not have them move out and get jobs.
And some people think that a Creative Writing degree is just a breeze where you get to sit around all day and think silly ideas and occasionally write them down and play. Ha! At least we can eat in adult restaurants (though we probably shouldn't).
The next part of my day was spent lying around on a clothing optional beach (fully clothed). Here a few highlights and observations:
-Why is it that going to this beach always makes me try to imagine what it would be like to have a penis? It's one thing to wonder what it would be like to have a penis, but when you are at this particular beach there is such a variety. You find yourself thinking: If I had that flopsy penis or if I had that stubby, fat dagger penis, or that tiny two marbles taped together-looking penis...
-After awhile you realize that you have to pee and there are porta potties. These look harmless enough but it takes four tries to hold your breath enough to close the door and when you get back outside you spit for 15 minutes swearing that the urine in the air from other people's piss absorbed on your tongue and then you think that you should've gone in the bushes like you used to do at drunken teenage bonfire parties. But then you realize that you are a. No longer a teenager. b. It is not dark outside. c. And most importantly, you are not drunk.
-Prepare to spend a good hour wondering two things:
1. Where did all of those naked people get that giant piece of tinfoil they are standing in? Is there some sort of nudie-on-the-beach supply store in town?
2. What would the line up of nudies in tinfoil do if you took their photograph? It looks like they are at some wacky photoshoot already with all this standing around and posing. Maybe that's what they want. Then prepare to spend an extra 15 minutes on: why would I take their picture? They are not exactly good-looking (see marble penis above). Would I print the pictures and put them on my wall as conversation pieces? No, because then I couldn't sleep at night. What the fuck would I do with their pictures? Oh yeah, use them for my Christmas cards.
-After awhile you will notice all sorts of seagulls around--you know, the type of bird that you saw snacking on another bird last week. They will look huge and pretty at first in their long overhead swooping until you realize that they are shitting on whatever is below them nearly the entire time they are airborne. But the best part about realizing they are shitting is making a running commentary on it like it were an Olympic sport. "And on the left we have--ohh, near miss on the kid there." "Good form. Nice execution. He nailed it!"
-The best part about the beach besides finding random garbage and animal parts in the sand is when you see a naked Dad yelling at his clothed toddler. "Miles! Get back here and finish your sandwich." "Miles what did Daddy tell you?!" This kid is quite young, but old enough to realize that if you have some naked guy yelling at you, you don't have to listen. Now this may not seem all that exciting at first, but if you imagine this kid growing up going to the beach with his naked Dad it could get quite humorous, the teenage years in particular.
After my beach excursion there was a slushie retrieval and I settled in to watch the US hockey team cream Canada. All I have to say is thank God they did or all the shit talking I did when they were tied up in the second period would've made me look like a fool. II should send them a thank you card. Before the big game it is said that US hockey players were saying that they hated the Canadian team. My crowning moment today was when I stood up at the end of the game, pointed to the nearest Canadian and declared, "See that's what hatred gets you--a win!" Well, at least this was supposed to be my crowning moment, I didn't feel so victorious afterward. I was feeling sort of hateful towards toward the Canadian after his non-response to my nasty remark. Now I am just waiting to see what my hatred gets me.
All I have to say about today is that I want my hour back that I spent watching Olympic Ice Dancing. Turns out Ice Dancing is just code for: Dipsticks in stupid outfits on ice that don't even do any cool tricks or fall down. Honestly, they make bowling look like a theme park adventure ride. I am going to blame the Ice Dancers on me eating too many Cheetos tonight, out of a depression-laced state of boredom.
Tip of the Day: Pretzels suck, it's okay to admit it.
-Canadian Castaway
I'm Not a Monster?, Jogging vs. Sex, Plays and Death, Invader Alert, Gaga Gaga, Ode to Yahoo.ca
Day 178
Having my friend's copy of the Gilmore Girls complete series is seriously starting to clam into my functioning in society and yet I really don't want to return them. I can't remember what life was like without Rory and Lorelai and the Stars Hollow gang. If only I could create a thesis that depends on me watching 5 or 6 episodes a day for the next few months everything would be just fine. But this, like every other idea I have come up with for my thesis, will not work. It has gotten so out of hand that I spent all day (when I wasn't watching the Gilmore Girls) bitching to my bodyguard about it, crying, and making plans to egg my thesis supervisors office. But, my bodyguard insists (even when directly asked) that I am not a monster.
Apparently, physical activity releases happy chemicals into your body. Being as I am short on drug money and don't have many brain cells left to kill I thought I'd give it a go. I found a friend who decided to accompany me on what I originally called a "jog." I was quite pleased when she showed up and agreed that brisk walking was good enough. So we brisk walked all over for an hour and 15 minutes. That was about 7 hours ago and I am still waiting for my happy high to kick in. Then it hit me: sex. So not only would one receive a feeling of happiness through the act itself (if it's done right), but it's also working out so you may receive the happy chemical release as well. Jogging (brisk walking) is for suckers. Now if only I could find a hot male "work out" buddy.
The residence hall I live in has a central email list serve that people send out things on. I received a message today about how there was maybe a suspicious person in a part of the building. The author of this email said that he was too afraid to investigate, but he thought he should let us know. I thought to myself, pussy. Today when I walked by a community kitchen I noticed two things: 1. the door leading to the outside of the kitchen was propped open (it never is) and, 2. There was a strange man looking in the fridge. I walked on two steps and then turned back around. When I looked again the man was gone. I thought that was odd and didn't go investigate then a few minutes later I found myself writing an email to the listserve to report that I saw a man and didn't do anything about it when I saw him. But the funny thing is that I didn't call myself a pussy.
Tonight I went to a play. To get to the play I had to race around and find a bus that would drop me in the middle of these woods and then walk down a very steep deserted hill on poorly lit sidewalks surrounded by houses that felt like no one lived in them. I finally made it. And it turns out that the play is essentially about a girl who gets abducted and killed when she is out walking alone. The friend I went to the show with was going to hang out with a cast member she knew. She asked what I was going to do and I told her I was going to call a cab to bring me to a bus stop to get out of the creepy uphill walk. She convinced a cast member to drop me at the bus stop. She told the cast member, "She's a little scared to walk to the bus from here and you know after that play--well..." In the car I thanked the cast member and she said, "I would rather have you alive than dead." Then there was a long pause as I was trying to figure out what to say. I settled on, "Yeah, so would my Mom."
So I like Lady Gaga. That is fine, until I realized that I haven't gone more than 3 waking hours in the last 2 weeks without listening to her music. It is yet to be proven that this is messing with my actual living all that much, but if it carries on I am going to wonder what it says about me. Maybe I will become a mythological creature one day and folk songs will be written about my obsession and stories will be passed down. That would be neat. Guess, I have a goal now. How do you start a mythology? Hmm, bet I could Google that.
Yahoo.ca news reports today that 9 out of 10 Americans "have a favourable view of Canada." What is this? Bragging? Seriously, who could hate on Canada? The article is a little dopey though, citing that we like Canadians because they don't really have an accent and they eat the same food as we do. The actual figure of 9 out of 10 Americans was taken from a Gallup poll. I am wondering if the folks at Gallup were to ask Canadians if they thought we people from the States were "favourable" what they'd say.
Tomorrow I expect to spend productively. Anyone want to make any bets on whether or not I will succeed?
Tip of the Day: Try not to imagine what your neighbors would do if they opened the dryer door and saw your underwear.
-Canadian Castaway
Having my friend's copy of the Gilmore Girls complete series is seriously starting to clam into my functioning in society and yet I really don't want to return them. I can't remember what life was like without Rory and Lorelai and the Stars Hollow gang. If only I could create a thesis that depends on me watching 5 or 6 episodes a day for the next few months everything would be just fine. But this, like every other idea I have come up with for my thesis, will not work. It has gotten so out of hand that I spent all day (when I wasn't watching the Gilmore Girls) bitching to my bodyguard about it, crying, and making plans to egg my thesis supervisors office. But, my bodyguard insists (even when directly asked) that I am not a monster.
Apparently, physical activity releases happy chemicals into your body. Being as I am short on drug money and don't have many brain cells left to kill I thought I'd give it a go. I found a friend who decided to accompany me on what I originally called a "jog." I was quite pleased when she showed up and agreed that brisk walking was good enough. So we brisk walked all over for an hour and 15 minutes. That was about 7 hours ago and I am still waiting for my happy high to kick in. Then it hit me: sex. So not only would one receive a feeling of happiness through the act itself (if it's done right), but it's also working out so you may receive the happy chemical release as well. Jogging (brisk walking) is for suckers. Now if only I could find a hot male "work out" buddy.
The residence hall I live in has a central email list serve that people send out things on. I received a message today about how there was maybe a suspicious person in a part of the building. The author of this email said that he was too afraid to investigate, but he thought he should let us know. I thought to myself, pussy. Today when I walked by a community kitchen I noticed two things: 1. the door leading to the outside of the kitchen was propped open (it never is) and, 2. There was a strange man looking in the fridge. I walked on two steps and then turned back around. When I looked again the man was gone. I thought that was odd and didn't go investigate then a few minutes later I found myself writing an email to the listserve to report that I saw a man and didn't do anything about it when I saw him. But the funny thing is that I didn't call myself a pussy.
Tonight I went to a play. To get to the play I had to race around and find a bus that would drop me in the middle of these woods and then walk down a very steep deserted hill on poorly lit sidewalks surrounded by houses that felt like no one lived in them. I finally made it. And it turns out that the play is essentially about a girl who gets abducted and killed when she is out walking alone. The friend I went to the show with was going to hang out with a cast member she knew. She asked what I was going to do and I told her I was going to call a cab to bring me to a bus stop to get out of the creepy uphill walk. She convinced a cast member to drop me at the bus stop. She told the cast member, "She's a little scared to walk to the bus from here and you know after that play--well..." In the car I thanked the cast member and she said, "I would rather have you alive than dead." Then there was a long pause as I was trying to figure out what to say. I settled on, "Yeah, so would my Mom."
So I like Lady Gaga. That is fine, until I realized that I haven't gone more than 3 waking hours in the last 2 weeks without listening to her music. It is yet to be proven that this is messing with my actual living all that much, but if it carries on I am going to wonder what it says about me. Maybe I will become a mythological creature one day and folk songs will be written about my obsession and stories will be passed down. That would be neat. Guess, I have a goal now. How do you start a mythology? Hmm, bet I could Google that.
Yahoo.ca news reports today that 9 out of 10 Americans "have a favourable view of Canada." What is this? Bragging? Seriously, who could hate on Canada? The article is a little dopey though, citing that we like Canadians because they don't really have an accent and they eat the same food as we do. The actual figure of 9 out of 10 Americans was taken from a Gallup poll. I am wondering if the folks at Gallup were to ask Canadians if they thought we people from the States were "favourable" what they'd say.
Tomorrow I expect to spend productively. Anyone want to make any bets on whether or not I will succeed?
Tip of the Day: Try not to imagine what your neighbors would do if they opened the dryer door and saw your underwear.
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, February 19, 2010
Derby Training, Unfriending Day, Valentine Go Away, Beaches (not the movie), Slushies, Not Equal Opportunity
Day 177
Today I decided that it was time to skate outside my building. After all, I don't give a shit what the freaks here think about me skating. I strapped on a tiny bit of courage, all my gear and my skates. When I got up I realized that there was no fence for me to grab onto and get my balance like in the tennis court I broke into to skate in two weeks ago. I went a few feet realizing just how many strangers were around and cars whizzing by with their eyes on my wobbling when I looked down to see a leaf stuck in the wheel of my skate. I bent over to get it out and took a break then a car pulled up in the little turnaround lane I was skating in. The car stopped just 4 feet from me. I pretended to be adjusting my skate and monkeying around with the wheels and made a show of it all. The car finally pulled around me and up to a spot 20 feet away and idled there. Finally, after a minute of resting on the ground waiting for the gawkers to leave, I took off my skates and went inside.
After all of that I tried to convince myself that I had really got out there and did something. But, ended up going on facebook and updating my status. Instead of writing that I actually did something I wrote that I confessed my personal pussydom. Oh well, at least I got a whole lot of responses on my wall post. Even though I know that I should probably unfriend those who hit the "Like" button, but that would mean getting rid of my own brother, which would mean that I can't spy on his parade of women and him photos or have facebook chat sessions that involve him posting Johnny Cash and Ted Nugent links every other line though I am a fan of neither.
There are many people who I'd like to unfriend though and I am sure I have written about the massive Unfriending Day I want to get passed as an official holiday. This is something that stands a chance being passed in Canada seeing as they really like their holidays. The only thing that may stand in the way is that Canadians do not unfriend people as it may be considered rude. There are many people I'd like to unfriend lately, and as usual, when I am feeling hateful and fiesty I ask my bodyguard if I am being rational. He may hum made up songs to himself and burst into a Scottish accent and write about magical things but he is an excellent go-to person when I need a rational thought (scary, huh). I told him I wanted to unfriend people and he said, "Good, you should, it's healthy." There you have it. I better get busy getting healthy. Would it be too healthy to friend the skinny guy who wrote on my friend's wall that the fat and ugly people in this world are the loudest, write nasty things on his wall and then unfriend him?
Today marks the first day that I have heard from my Valentine's Day disaster date. We went from chatting everyday to going 5 days after an alleged date before he even attempts to communicate. Let me relay the conversation:
Him: Hi Emily! how are you?
Me: Okay.
Him: Are you alright?
Me: I'm fine.
Him: You don't sound like your chipper self.
Me: I'm fine.
Him: Okay.
The End. Gee, if I unfriended him I would miss out on our lovely chats. What to do? Fuck that, unfriending is too good for him. Egging him on the sidewalk sounds okay, getting a photo of him covered in yolk sounds better, posting that photo as my facebook profile pic sounds lovely. I am not bitter, just crafty (and, bitter).
Being as it was a nice day, my bodyguard and I decided to go down to the beach where our friend had spotted a giant sculpture. We didn't find the sculpture. What we found was the following:
-This beach was covered in rocks, not sand, therefore my David Hasselfhoff impersonation couldn't be put into full effect (unless of course I had one of those yellow jeeps).
-There was a dead crab. The kind of crab you see in a tank at a restaurant, except it was purple. How do I know it was purple when it was turned over dead? My bodyguard kicked it. Question: If I were to have died on the long series of steps into and out of the beach would he have kicked me too? Answer: Probably.
-A wooden postcard. In between the rocks I saw it next to a spot with a giant red candle near it as though it were some souvenir of a seance. I took it anyway and bragged about it to my bodyguard who was too busy looking out at the water instead of milling around for treasure.
-On the walk up I spotted a discarded shaver in the woods and took a picture of it. I turned to my bodyguard and declared, "It's funny how I spend all of my time in nature looking for signs of civilization." He wasn't impressed at my profundity as he was too busy looking for giant spiders which don't exist outside of his mind.
My favorite part of beach day though was when we made it back up the stairs and to a convenience-type store on campus. I never really go to this place because all of the food looks like it would be expired, but while inside I noticed something: they have a slushie machine. Not only did they have a slushie machine, but this particular slushie machine had 4 flavors of slushie, not just the traditional red and blue (whatever flavors those are). We settled upon Cream Soda, (a red varietal) and on the walk home I showed my bodyguard the proper slushie eating form. Sip, shake, melt with your hand, repeat. He didn't really catch on so he made me look like a genius.
So, the boy that I am in currently in command of brought over a movie I wanted to see tonight. Sometimes I think I'll give him a chance, he usually does whatever I say so we may actually get along, right? Nope. At first I thought it was me being picky and unaccepting (me, picky and unaccepting, never). The way that he constantly crinkled wrappers, sighed, made a weird buzzing sound, constantly wiggled his foot and sort of grunted when hot women were on screen proved that no, it was clearly him not me. Most of the time he is the type of annoying that makes you wish you carried around a bandanna and a rope so that you could gag and bind him. This night reminded me of my old friend. My friend used to say that she's an "equal opportunity dater," and I used to think that was kinda cool that she gave everyone a shot now I see it as her wasting a good chunk of her time unless she is researching the quirks of annoying people for use to exploit them when they become fictional characters in her screenplays. Hmm...
I was just burst in upon by a couple friends who drug a strange guy into my room saying, "It's okay, he's American."
Tip of the Day: If you say that you are writing a TV series it is expected that you watch like 8 hours of TV a day (right?).
-Canadian Castaway
Today I decided that it was time to skate outside my building. After all, I don't give a shit what the freaks here think about me skating. I strapped on a tiny bit of courage, all my gear and my skates. When I got up I realized that there was no fence for me to grab onto and get my balance like in the tennis court I broke into to skate in two weeks ago. I went a few feet realizing just how many strangers were around and cars whizzing by with their eyes on my wobbling when I looked down to see a leaf stuck in the wheel of my skate. I bent over to get it out and took a break then a car pulled up in the little turnaround lane I was skating in. The car stopped just 4 feet from me. I pretended to be adjusting my skate and monkeying around with the wheels and made a show of it all. The car finally pulled around me and up to a spot 20 feet away and idled there. Finally, after a minute of resting on the ground waiting for the gawkers to leave, I took off my skates and went inside.
After all of that I tried to convince myself that I had really got out there and did something. But, ended up going on facebook and updating my status. Instead of writing that I actually did something I wrote that I confessed my personal pussydom. Oh well, at least I got a whole lot of responses on my wall post. Even though I know that I should probably unfriend those who hit the "Like" button, but that would mean getting rid of my own brother, which would mean that I can't spy on his parade of women and him photos or have facebook chat sessions that involve him posting Johnny Cash and Ted Nugent links every other line though I am a fan of neither.
There are many people who I'd like to unfriend though and I am sure I have written about the massive Unfriending Day I want to get passed as an official holiday. This is something that stands a chance being passed in Canada seeing as they really like their holidays. The only thing that may stand in the way is that Canadians do not unfriend people as it may be considered rude. There are many people I'd like to unfriend lately, and as usual, when I am feeling hateful and fiesty I ask my bodyguard if I am being rational. He may hum made up songs to himself and burst into a Scottish accent and write about magical things but he is an excellent go-to person when I need a rational thought (scary, huh). I told him I wanted to unfriend people and he said, "Good, you should, it's healthy." There you have it. I better get busy getting healthy. Would it be too healthy to friend the skinny guy who wrote on my friend's wall that the fat and ugly people in this world are the loudest, write nasty things on his wall and then unfriend him?
Today marks the first day that I have heard from my Valentine's Day disaster date. We went from chatting everyday to going 5 days after an alleged date before he even attempts to communicate. Let me relay the conversation:
Him: Hi Emily! how are you?
Me: Okay.
Him: Are you alright?
Me: I'm fine.
Him: You don't sound like your chipper self.
Me: I'm fine.
Him: Okay.
The End. Gee, if I unfriended him I would miss out on our lovely chats. What to do? Fuck that, unfriending is too good for him. Egging him on the sidewalk sounds okay, getting a photo of him covered in yolk sounds better, posting that photo as my facebook profile pic sounds lovely. I am not bitter, just crafty (and, bitter).
Being as it was a nice day, my bodyguard and I decided to go down to the beach where our friend had spotted a giant sculpture. We didn't find the sculpture. What we found was the following:
-This beach was covered in rocks, not sand, therefore my David Hasselfhoff impersonation couldn't be put into full effect (unless of course I had one of those yellow jeeps).
-There was a dead crab. The kind of crab you see in a tank at a restaurant, except it was purple. How do I know it was purple when it was turned over dead? My bodyguard kicked it. Question: If I were to have died on the long series of steps into and out of the beach would he have kicked me too? Answer: Probably.
-A wooden postcard. In between the rocks I saw it next to a spot with a giant red candle near it as though it were some souvenir of a seance. I took it anyway and bragged about it to my bodyguard who was too busy looking out at the water instead of milling around for treasure.
-On the walk up I spotted a discarded shaver in the woods and took a picture of it. I turned to my bodyguard and declared, "It's funny how I spend all of my time in nature looking for signs of civilization." He wasn't impressed at my profundity as he was too busy looking for giant spiders which don't exist outside of his mind.
My favorite part of beach day though was when we made it back up the stairs and to a convenience-type store on campus. I never really go to this place because all of the food looks like it would be expired, but while inside I noticed something: they have a slushie machine. Not only did they have a slushie machine, but this particular slushie machine had 4 flavors of slushie, not just the traditional red and blue (whatever flavors those are). We settled upon Cream Soda, (a red varietal) and on the walk home I showed my bodyguard the proper slushie eating form. Sip, shake, melt with your hand, repeat. He didn't really catch on so he made me look like a genius.
So, the boy that I am in currently in command of brought over a movie I wanted to see tonight. Sometimes I think I'll give him a chance, he usually does whatever I say so we may actually get along, right? Nope. At first I thought it was me being picky and unaccepting (me, picky and unaccepting, never). The way that he constantly crinkled wrappers, sighed, made a weird buzzing sound, constantly wiggled his foot and sort of grunted when hot women were on screen proved that no, it was clearly him not me. Most of the time he is the type of annoying that makes you wish you carried around a bandanna and a rope so that you could gag and bind him. This night reminded me of my old friend. My friend used to say that she's an "equal opportunity dater," and I used to think that was kinda cool that she gave everyone a shot now I see it as her wasting a good chunk of her time unless she is researching the quirks of annoying people for use to exploit them when they become fictional characters in her screenplays. Hmm...
I was just burst in upon by a couple friends who drug a strange guy into my room saying, "It's okay, he's American."
Tip of the Day: If you say that you are writing a TV series it is expected that you watch like 8 hours of TV a day (right?).
-Canadian Castaway
Oprah Stole My Dad, Route 66, Here Comes a Regular, Ukrainian Pride, Canadian Crime, Peep Shows and Dildos
Day 176
Today was an odd duck day. This is how it went down:
After waking up and not going to breakfast I actually did some writing, until I spoke with my father. He sounded like he was on sedatives. I told him he should go to rehab, take a nap, or drink some coffee. He said that if he took a nap at that time he would sleep through the beginning of Oprah, so that was not an option. He said that he would rather just stay awake and catch Dr. Phil first. We used to tease him about spending his afternoons watching daytime TV and he would always say he didn't waste his time with it, but he has stopped denying it. Should I be weirded out or encourage his new hobby?
After we exhausted the Oprah talk he informed me that he had watched The Price is Right today as "the old postmaster here in town" was one of the contestants. He told me that the postmaster won 3 ladies winter coats and an entertainment center and only spun 60 on the wheel and didn't make it to the showcase showdown. Not only was the old postmaster on so was another guy on from my home state and this is what my father had to say about him, "So this other guy he was wearing a jacket with Route 66 on it, and Carey asked him if he had traveled on Route 66 to get to the show and the guy said, 'Yep, I sure did.'" Truly riveting. Now imagine this being spoken real slow and some of the words repeating and this is what it is like to talk to my father. You'd better sit somewhere comfortable, take a sedative, and bring snacks--this'll take awhile.
When I finally tore Dad off the phone I headed out to the candy shop. I stumbled in the door and was greeted by the clerk, as though we were old friends (apparently we are). She asked how and where I've been and told me that not much had changed and the stock was getting low and, "Oh, but we do have those liquorice Altoids you like." Later she saw me poking around the sucker island and said, "You are looking for sweet and sour Charms, right? I think we're out." I made my purchases and said goodbye and as I was walking up the street I realized that there was a reason for her treating me so friendly and being so attentive to my needs and it's not because she thinks I'm pretty or nice or she's just a good person. Then I started to remember all the memories I have accumulated at that candy store in the 4 1/2 months of me shopping there and realized: she does know me and is nice to me because I am a regular. Terrifying. Sure, it's nice to be loyal, but maybe one should draw the line of being loyal to a candy shop it really just leads to guilt and a dirty, sugary feeling.
This afternoon I wound up in a community centre next to a church. This was the official Ukrainian House. On the inside the place looks like a church hall except that it has kielbasa, perogies, and giant beers which makes it much better than a church hall. Plus there were fun old ladies with big saggy arms and old men who played guitar and wore funny shorts with cummberbunds and tiny children who ran around in circles and fell down. There was also a Canadian hockey game playing that ended with my favorite Canadian hockey fan saying, "I am glad they won, but they didn't deserve to win--they played like total shit tonight." It was during these moments that I learned who I really am: a Ukrainian trapped in an American body. Also, when I was buying my second giant beer I learned, according to the old lady selling me a beer ticket, "If you go to the bathroom and piss it all out, you can fit more in."
After the Ukrainian-fest (did I mention we got there at 3 so it was only like 7 or 8 when we left, totally smashed) we all headed out first to the liquor store and then to a friend's place. We got a little more drunk and ate nachos (which are now threatening to make a reappearance) and talked about third wave feminism (not so good according to a male expert present) and what our parents told us about sex ("get on that horse").
The best story of the night was told by the quiet, pretty boy in the group who used to work in a sex shop. He was part of the most Canadian robbery I've ever heard about. Apparently, a kid came by and asked for a pen and paper and wrote that he was sorry but he was in a bind and he would have to rob the store and if my friend didn't comply he would kill him. So my friend felt sorry for him and gave him the cash float which he had specifically asked for in the note making sure to tell the kid that there was much more money in the till instead of the float thinking this would help him out. The kid took just the float and coins spilled everywhere. Instead of taking this oportunity to do something about being robbed my friend offered to help pick them up. The kid picked them up himself while my friend watched and left. And, that was the robbery. No wonder there aren't tons of Canadian crime shows--if they were based on real life Canadian situations they'd be boring as all hell.
So after the party we decided to leave the party and go check out the sex shop up the block that advertised "25 cent Peep Shows." When we got there we realized that my friend who had worked in a sex shop was quite knowledgeable on vibrators. We also learned that the peep shows were actually a minimum of $3.25 to get in. We all agreed that this was outrageous (based on what I am not sure) and refused to pay. But we left with vibrators that the man in the shop seconded to be top of the line. I wonder what these men base all of their knowledge on.
Tip of the Day: Just because the giant, flashing neon sign says its 25 cents expect to pay a $3.25 minimum.
-Canadian Castaway
Today was an odd duck day. This is how it went down:
After waking up and not going to breakfast I actually did some writing, until I spoke with my father. He sounded like he was on sedatives. I told him he should go to rehab, take a nap, or drink some coffee. He said that if he took a nap at that time he would sleep through the beginning of Oprah, so that was not an option. He said that he would rather just stay awake and catch Dr. Phil first. We used to tease him about spending his afternoons watching daytime TV and he would always say he didn't waste his time with it, but he has stopped denying it. Should I be weirded out or encourage his new hobby?
After we exhausted the Oprah talk he informed me that he had watched The Price is Right today as "the old postmaster here in town" was one of the contestants. He told me that the postmaster won 3 ladies winter coats and an entertainment center and only spun 60 on the wheel and didn't make it to the showcase showdown. Not only was the old postmaster on so was another guy on from my home state and this is what my father had to say about him, "So this other guy he was wearing a jacket with Route 66 on it, and Carey asked him if he had traveled on Route 66 to get to the show and the guy said, 'Yep, I sure did.'" Truly riveting. Now imagine this being spoken real slow and some of the words repeating and this is what it is like to talk to my father. You'd better sit somewhere comfortable, take a sedative, and bring snacks--this'll take awhile.
When I finally tore Dad off the phone I headed out to the candy shop. I stumbled in the door and was greeted by the clerk, as though we were old friends (apparently we are). She asked how and where I've been and told me that not much had changed and the stock was getting low and, "Oh, but we do have those liquorice Altoids you like." Later she saw me poking around the sucker island and said, "You are looking for sweet and sour Charms, right? I think we're out." I made my purchases and said goodbye and as I was walking up the street I realized that there was a reason for her treating me so friendly and being so attentive to my needs and it's not because she thinks I'm pretty or nice or she's just a good person. Then I started to remember all the memories I have accumulated at that candy store in the 4 1/2 months of me shopping there and realized: she does know me and is nice to me because I am a regular. Terrifying. Sure, it's nice to be loyal, but maybe one should draw the line of being loyal to a candy shop it really just leads to guilt and a dirty, sugary feeling.
This afternoon I wound up in a community centre next to a church. This was the official Ukrainian House. On the inside the place looks like a church hall except that it has kielbasa, perogies, and giant beers which makes it much better than a church hall. Plus there were fun old ladies with big saggy arms and old men who played guitar and wore funny shorts with cummberbunds and tiny children who ran around in circles and fell down. There was also a Canadian hockey game playing that ended with my favorite Canadian hockey fan saying, "I am glad they won, but they didn't deserve to win--they played like total shit tonight." It was during these moments that I learned who I really am: a Ukrainian trapped in an American body. Also, when I was buying my second giant beer I learned, according to the old lady selling me a beer ticket, "If you go to the bathroom and piss it all out, you can fit more in."
After the Ukrainian-fest (did I mention we got there at 3 so it was only like 7 or 8 when we left, totally smashed) we all headed out first to the liquor store and then to a friend's place. We got a little more drunk and ate nachos (which are now threatening to make a reappearance) and talked about third wave feminism (not so good according to a male expert present) and what our parents told us about sex ("get on that horse").
The best story of the night was told by the quiet, pretty boy in the group who used to work in a sex shop. He was part of the most Canadian robbery I've ever heard about. Apparently, a kid came by and asked for a pen and paper and wrote that he was sorry but he was in a bind and he would have to rob the store and if my friend didn't comply he would kill him. So my friend felt sorry for him and gave him the cash float which he had specifically asked for in the note making sure to tell the kid that there was much more money in the till instead of the float thinking this would help him out. The kid took just the float and coins spilled everywhere. Instead of taking this oportunity to do something about being robbed my friend offered to help pick them up. The kid picked them up himself while my friend watched and left. And, that was the robbery. No wonder there aren't tons of Canadian crime shows--if they were based on real life Canadian situations they'd be boring as all hell.
So after the party we decided to leave the party and go check out the sex shop up the block that advertised "25 cent Peep Shows." When we got there we realized that my friend who had worked in a sex shop was quite knowledgeable on vibrators. We also learned that the peep shows were actually a minimum of $3.25 to get in. We all agreed that this was outrageous (based on what I am not sure) and refused to pay. But we left with vibrators that the man in the shop seconded to be top of the line. I wonder what these men base all of their knowledge on.
Tip of the Day: Just because the giant, flashing neon sign says its 25 cents expect to pay a $3.25 minimum.
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Writing is Scary, Snow-y Inspiration, Islanding and Death, Loser Girl Party of One
Day 175
So, I got up this morning and realized what the hell I'm doing with my life and it is daunting. You know after years of writing and sending out my work, getting a degree in Writing and going 5 months into a grad program in another country it finally hit me that I am going to be writing for a living (hopefully). I am not just secretly scribbling down things and working on them in my spare time anymore. I am supposed to be scribbling down things and working on them ALL of the time. I have yet to make this transition as it would mean that I will severely have to cut down on my TV watching and drunken debauchery time. I didn't know if I could handle the pressure and dedication of it all.
It all seemed a little hopeless until I saw the Olympic half-pipe competition. Yeah, I know I have totally lost it. Anyway, when I saw Shaun White land his last jump and win the gold I first thought, "USA!" and then, "Hey, he deserves to win that--he's obviously put in the work." Then I spent the next half hour watching videos of him on youtube, including a clip of a trial run of the jump that he landed nailed tonight. In the clip the only thing he nailed was his chin on the lip of the pipe. After seeing that I decided that I want to be the Shaun White of the writing world. The girl whose trial pass sucks and nearly kills her but she gets back up (severely damaged) and does it until she gets it right. So now whenever I sit down to write and it totally sucks I am going to blame it on Shaun and keep at it until I win something shiny and gold. And when I am on the Ellen DeGeneres show and she asks who do I draw inspiration from for my writing I can say, "World famous snowboarder, Shaun White."
So instead of sulking in my room about how I may have walking pneumonia I went to the clinic to find out--Not! Who wants horrible news like that? Instead, I went to a touristy island and watched people dancing in windows. This is called, "Pop-up Dancing" but I must note that no one really popped up. There was more swirling around and swaying than popping. But I must say that my favorite part of my trip was not the dancing. My favorite part was when we were out on a dock platform with 60 people. These people were not dancing, these people were mortified. Only seconds before we arrived a seagull killed a small bird and it's ripped open corpse was hanging from the seagulls beak. The bird was just standing there with the dead bird in its mouth, all proud looking.
I was the only one not shrieking. Okay so I was shrieking, but I was the one shrieking, "That was awesome!" Everyone looked at me like I was insane, including my friends who were holding each other saying, "That was the most disturbing thing I've ever seen." Seriously? We eat meat all the time. Just because we don't kill our supper and stand with an entire dead cow out of our mouths doesn't make us any different. Okay so it makes us more civilized but what does that really mean? In this context, and many other contexts, "civilized" just means that we are in denial that we are all really just animals who eat other animals and make up silly words to cover ourselves in. But, it was one thing to not be too "disturbed" by the killing but quite another to be sad that we missed the death scene. I was sad. How crazy would that have been to see a real life bird see another bird and think 'dinner' and then rip it to shreds? That would've been nuts. But what would be more exciting would be to see what this already mortified and civilized crowd have looked like during it?
For quite awhile tonight at supper I was the loser girl in the dining hall. Despite my constant bitching and wishing that no one would talk to me it never really did happen, until today. I realized something when I was eating carrots on my own and not knowing whether to look around and smile or down at my food and frown (not like it mattered, no one was looking at me). I realized that no matter how much I have identified myself with that character in movies (the loser girl who nobody sits by) I have never actually been that girl. The difference between being that girl and seeing that girl is that when you are that girl you don't see that something cool will happen to you later on in the film of your life and you are most definitely not a loser.
Tip of the Day: I read online that Kelly Osbourne lost weight by giving up Jam-filled cookies. So, if you eat jam-filled cookies and want to lose weight stop.
-Canadian Castaway
So, I got up this morning and realized what the hell I'm doing with my life and it is daunting. You know after years of writing and sending out my work, getting a degree in Writing and going 5 months into a grad program in another country it finally hit me that I am going to be writing for a living (hopefully). I am not just secretly scribbling down things and working on them in my spare time anymore. I am supposed to be scribbling down things and working on them ALL of the time. I have yet to make this transition as it would mean that I will severely have to cut down on my TV watching and drunken debauchery time. I didn't know if I could handle the pressure and dedication of it all.
It all seemed a little hopeless until I saw the Olympic half-pipe competition. Yeah, I know I have totally lost it. Anyway, when I saw Shaun White land his last jump and win the gold I first thought, "USA!" and then, "Hey, he deserves to win that--he's obviously put in the work." Then I spent the next half hour watching videos of him on youtube, including a clip of a trial run of the jump that he landed nailed tonight. In the clip the only thing he nailed was his chin on the lip of the pipe. After seeing that I decided that I want to be the Shaun White of the writing world. The girl whose trial pass sucks and nearly kills her but she gets back up (severely damaged) and does it until she gets it right. So now whenever I sit down to write and it totally sucks I am going to blame it on Shaun and keep at it until I win something shiny and gold. And when I am on the Ellen DeGeneres show and she asks who do I draw inspiration from for my writing I can say, "World famous snowboarder, Shaun White."
So instead of sulking in my room about how I may have walking pneumonia I went to the clinic to find out--Not! Who wants horrible news like that? Instead, I went to a touristy island and watched people dancing in windows. This is called, "Pop-up Dancing" but I must note that no one really popped up. There was more swirling around and swaying than popping. But I must say that my favorite part of my trip was not the dancing. My favorite part was when we were out on a dock platform with 60 people. These people were not dancing, these people were mortified. Only seconds before we arrived a seagull killed a small bird and it's ripped open corpse was hanging from the seagulls beak. The bird was just standing there with the dead bird in its mouth, all proud looking.
I was the only one not shrieking. Okay so I was shrieking, but I was the one shrieking, "That was awesome!" Everyone looked at me like I was insane, including my friends who were holding each other saying, "That was the most disturbing thing I've ever seen." Seriously? We eat meat all the time. Just because we don't kill our supper and stand with an entire dead cow out of our mouths doesn't make us any different. Okay so it makes us more civilized but what does that really mean? In this context, and many other contexts, "civilized" just means that we are in denial that we are all really just animals who eat other animals and make up silly words to cover ourselves in. But, it was one thing to not be too "disturbed" by the killing but quite another to be sad that we missed the death scene. I was sad. How crazy would that have been to see a real life bird see another bird and think 'dinner' and then rip it to shreds? That would've been nuts. But what would be more exciting would be to see what this already mortified and civilized crowd have looked like during it?
For quite awhile tonight at supper I was the loser girl in the dining hall. Despite my constant bitching and wishing that no one would talk to me it never really did happen, until today. I realized something when I was eating carrots on my own and not knowing whether to look around and smile or down at my food and frown (not like it mattered, no one was looking at me). I realized that no matter how much I have identified myself with that character in movies (the loser girl who nobody sits by) I have never actually been that girl. The difference between being that girl and seeing that girl is that when you are that girl you don't see that something cool will happen to you later on in the film of your life and you are most definitely not a loser.
Tip of the Day: I read online that Kelly Osbourne lost weight by giving up Jam-filled cookies. So, if you eat jam-filled cookies and want to lose weight stop.
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Don't Breakfast, Sickness Suck, Morally Questionable, GOAL!!! and Repeat 7 Times, Curling and Skating Mostly Suck, King Tut
Day 174
I actually woke up and went to breakfast today, due to the hacking cough I now have. This not only made me wide awake but also hoarse, and crabby. But, I learned a very important lesson: never go to breakfast when you are hoarse and crabby, especially if that breakfast has to be eaten with your frigging neighbors because you are ridiculous enough to be living in a residence hall. Even if you sit at a faraway table with someone you've just had an awkward fight with and bury yourself in a newspaper that you don't even want to read the annoying guy will find you and all other forms of nerdy creatures will acknowledge your presence.
Sometimes I wonder if I had to start over again would I chose to be the loud American girl or would I be like the mysterious tall man who always sits alone, never says anything to anyone and goes unnoticed (except short and not a man). But, I know the truth: I am a drama whore. Seriously, drama has been the only love of my life (along with cigarettes, coffee, and Johnny Depp circa Gilbert Grape). But to you tall mystery man who is smart enough to keep to himself, I will always think of you and secretly hate you for being who I cannot be.
So I suck at being sick. Seriously the only time I have been good at it is when I had Influenza A two years ago and was quarantined to my apartment to watch copious amounts of television, do edits, and drink gallons of liquorice tea. This current ailment has not proven to be nearly as fun, if anything it is proving how much of an old skag I have become. It used to be that when I drank cough syrup it was mildly to insanely enjoyable (okay, gotta admit, did it while driving once, amazing and stupid, don't remember a single traffic light luckily it was 4:30 am). Now when I drink it I get no effect at all. This could be due to how instead of tossing the measuring cap away (in Canada they don't even include the measuring cap) I cautiously fill a spoon and choke it down whilst whining. Now not only I am I just plain sick I am sick and old. Good grief.
I have come to the point in my life where I have to make a very important decision and I've decided to keep the baby but give it up for ad--wait a minute, I am not pregnant. No, the decision right now is whether or not to write a book. This is not such a big choice I've done it twice before (btw, if anyone wants to buy those books and publish them please let me know I am not picky and would give them away for a shiny bag of nickels and a movie deal). The choice is that this book's central characters are morally reprehensible in nasty ways, not the I cheat on my wife type ways, more the I cheat on my wife with a pregnant goat sort of way. I am not afraid of getting bored with writing this book, I am more so afraid of losing even more of my own morals in the process as I will be thinking terrible things. The even more frightening thing is that when you write a novel it all comes from you, parts of you, or what you are curious about. Hmm...
The Olympic games are still on. Today Canada beat Norway in hockey 8 to 0. I watched the game in shock and horror. Every goal the fans went wild. EVERY goal. And, they played out the game to the final seconds. I find this wrong for two reasons: 1. Come on fans don't you think it's a little sad? If you saw a huge kid beating up a small kid it may be funny at first but after the small kid has both his arms and legs broken it's time to stop laughing and cheering and cut it short or him losing his eye. 2. Okay so I realize that it's cool to win on your own turf and I am supposed to be cheering for Canada (which, I was, secretly) but they came all the way from Norway to be here. Can't you throw away even just one goal to them? Maybe I am way off base here, afterall I am always the girl saying, "No, I want you to win," when playing games, but the morals in this country conveyed through athletic competition are terrifying. I miss my polite Canadians who apologize. What the hell happened?
The other events I watched today were curling and men's short program figure skating. Curling, with all that moving of brooms or whatever the hell they were was just plain dull. And, the figure skating was mostly just a bunch of men twirling around and around and not taking jumps or having any huge falls. I did enjoy all of the sparkly weird costumes, though. One commentator went on and on about men dressing in skeleton outfits for Olympic games was too much. "This isn't the icecapades," he said. No fucking kidding man, if this were the icecapades I wouldn't be able to search for snacks or steal jugs of coffee during it. But, I would still flirt with my robotics friend even though he is probably gay in which case he would love the icecapades.
The most exciting part of my day just occurred thanks to yahoo.ca. The headline: DNA studies reveal a frail King Tut who died at 19 from a broken leg complicated by malaria should have read: King Tut: Club Footed Tiny King Whose Parents Were Brother and Sister. Sure the actual article mentions that he died from complications due to a broken leg and malaria, but most of it talks about how incestuous everyone was back then. It even goes into detail about the weird ailments one can get as a result of this sibling loving like clubbed feet and feminine features. So it was pretty much an informative piece about how you shouldn't marry your brother. Unless of course you are a man then you can marry your brother because you can't reproduce. Well, you can marry him if you live somewhere where they have gay marriage and no laws about inter-family marriage. Damn it's a complicated world out there.
Tip of the Day: If your shitty Valentines Day date is now always on chat do not chat with him, instead go think up all the hateful things you want to do to him and all the reasons why he is a jerk and write them on a piece of paper and shove it under his door, or just sit in your room and cough and watch TV.
-Canadian Castaway
I actually woke up and went to breakfast today, due to the hacking cough I now have. This not only made me wide awake but also hoarse, and crabby. But, I learned a very important lesson: never go to breakfast when you are hoarse and crabby, especially if that breakfast has to be eaten with your frigging neighbors because you are ridiculous enough to be living in a residence hall. Even if you sit at a faraway table with someone you've just had an awkward fight with and bury yourself in a newspaper that you don't even want to read the annoying guy will find you and all other forms of nerdy creatures will acknowledge your presence.
Sometimes I wonder if I had to start over again would I chose to be the loud American girl or would I be like the mysterious tall man who always sits alone, never says anything to anyone and goes unnoticed (except short and not a man). But, I know the truth: I am a drama whore. Seriously, drama has been the only love of my life (along with cigarettes, coffee, and Johnny Depp circa Gilbert Grape). But to you tall mystery man who is smart enough to keep to himself, I will always think of you and secretly hate you for being who I cannot be.
So I suck at being sick. Seriously the only time I have been good at it is when I had Influenza A two years ago and was quarantined to my apartment to watch copious amounts of television, do edits, and drink gallons of liquorice tea. This current ailment has not proven to be nearly as fun, if anything it is proving how much of an old skag I have become. It used to be that when I drank cough syrup it was mildly to insanely enjoyable (okay, gotta admit, did it while driving once, amazing and stupid, don't remember a single traffic light luckily it was 4:30 am). Now when I drink it I get no effect at all. This could be due to how instead of tossing the measuring cap away (in Canada they don't even include the measuring cap) I cautiously fill a spoon and choke it down whilst whining. Now not only I am I just plain sick I am sick and old. Good grief.
I have come to the point in my life where I have to make a very important decision and I've decided to keep the baby but give it up for ad--wait a minute, I am not pregnant. No, the decision right now is whether or not to write a book. This is not such a big choice I've done it twice before (btw, if anyone wants to buy those books and publish them please let me know I am not picky and would give them away for a shiny bag of nickels and a movie deal). The choice is that this book's central characters are morally reprehensible in nasty ways, not the I cheat on my wife type ways, more the I cheat on my wife with a pregnant goat sort of way. I am not afraid of getting bored with writing this book, I am more so afraid of losing even more of my own morals in the process as I will be thinking terrible things. The even more frightening thing is that when you write a novel it all comes from you, parts of you, or what you are curious about. Hmm...
The Olympic games are still on. Today Canada beat Norway in hockey 8 to 0. I watched the game in shock and horror. Every goal the fans went wild. EVERY goal. And, they played out the game to the final seconds. I find this wrong for two reasons: 1. Come on fans don't you think it's a little sad? If you saw a huge kid beating up a small kid it may be funny at first but after the small kid has both his arms and legs broken it's time to stop laughing and cheering and cut it short or him losing his eye. 2. Okay so I realize that it's cool to win on your own turf and I am supposed to be cheering for Canada (which, I was, secretly) but they came all the way from Norway to be here. Can't you throw away even just one goal to them? Maybe I am way off base here, afterall I am always the girl saying, "No, I want you to win," when playing games, but the morals in this country conveyed through athletic competition are terrifying. I miss my polite Canadians who apologize. What the hell happened?
The other events I watched today were curling and men's short program figure skating. Curling, with all that moving of brooms or whatever the hell they were was just plain dull. And, the figure skating was mostly just a bunch of men twirling around and around and not taking jumps or having any huge falls. I did enjoy all of the sparkly weird costumes, though. One commentator went on and on about men dressing in skeleton outfits for Olympic games was too much. "This isn't the icecapades," he said. No fucking kidding man, if this were the icecapades I wouldn't be able to search for snacks or steal jugs of coffee during it. But, I would still flirt with my robotics friend even though he is probably gay in which case he would love the icecapades.
The most exciting part of my day just occurred thanks to yahoo.ca. The headline: DNA studies reveal a frail King Tut who died at 19 from a broken leg complicated by malaria should have read: King Tut: Club Footed Tiny King Whose Parents Were Brother and Sister. Sure the actual article mentions that he died from complications due to a broken leg and malaria, but most of it talks about how incestuous everyone was back then. It even goes into detail about the weird ailments one can get as a result of this sibling loving like clubbed feet and feminine features. So it was pretty much an informative piece about how you shouldn't marry your brother. Unless of course you are a man then you can marry your brother because you can't reproduce. Well, you can marry him if you live somewhere where they have gay marriage and no laws about inter-family marriage. Damn it's a complicated world out there.
Tip of the Day: If your shitty Valentines Day date is now always on chat do not chat with him, instead go think up all the hateful things you want to do to him and all the reasons why he is a jerk and write them on a piece of paper and shove it under his door, or just sit in your room and cough and watch TV.
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, February 15, 2010
Dear Smiley Guy, Belt Shopping, Funny Pants, Skate Update, Olympic Workout, Robots and Tenacious Man Hunting
Day 173
This morning (noon) I decided that today was the day that I go out and buy myself a belt. On the long bus ride to the closest fat lady store I tried to make outlines for the TV pilot I am currently writing, but kept getting distracted by the man sitting directly across from me. Now, he wasn't all that hot (okay, so I did wake up next to a man that looked near identical to him once, but that doesn't mean he was gorgeous). It was more the fact that he wore a happy smile on his face and he wasn't smiling at anything in particular. His eyes gave no expression of seeing something adorable or thinking about something wonderful that had happened to him. He just looked like a happy baby.
Then it hit me: adults don't just smile for the hell of it. How sad. This is the reason we are addicted to looking at babies. Their silly dumbassed smiling at nothing makes us smile. In this sense this guy so intrigued me that I almost put up a craigslist missed connection. But didn't know how to word, saying: "Looking for smiley guy to sit near but not talk to," doesn't sound right. Plus, I didn't really miss a connection with him, we connected (translation: I stared at him and he kept smiling and didn't notice me that's all the connection I need).
Not only did I have to deal with the skaters I had to deal with the guy sitting next to me who builds robots. How cool is that? I had to stop myself from geeking out asking idiotic questions like: "So this robot you are working on is it like the robot in Revenge of the Nerds II?" Luckily, he quickly explained the entire thing to me, preventing my questioning. The only geeking out I ended up doing was saying: "God, how old are you? You look young." "25," he said. "When's your birthday?" "August," he said and then added, "I am a Virgo." I just nodded in response but inside I was saying, "How did he know that I was thinking, God, you're a Leo, fuck off." Then I remembered how last night's Virgo date went and got all bitchy again and hated myself for immediately thinking when I meet someone new, "Are you a possibility?" I should look into getting spayed. (Note: I actually had to dictionary.com the spelling of spayed) But if I got spayed I couldn't pull of my jeans/pants trick. Shit. Okay, that's enough of how the inside of my head works for one day.
Tip of the Day: Opening a restaurant in Andorra is a viable career option. Why not?
-Canadian Castaway
This morning (noon) I decided that today was the day that I go out and buy myself a belt. On the long bus ride to the closest fat lady store I tried to make outlines for the TV pilot I am currently writing, but kept getting distracted by the man sitting directly across from me. Now, he wasn't all that hot (okay, so I did wake up next to a man that looked near identical to him once, but that doesn't mean he was gorgeous). It was more the fact that he wore a happy smile on his face and he wasn't smiling at anything in particular. His eyes gave no expression of seeing something adorable or thinking about something wonderful that had happened to him. He just looked like a happy baby.
Then it hit me: adults don't just smile for the hell of it. How sad. This is the reason we are addicted to looking at babies. Their silly dumbassed smiling at nothing makes us smile. In this sense this guy so intrigued me that I almost put up a craigslist missed connection. But didn't know how to word, saying: "Looking for smiley guy to sit near but not talk to," doesn't sound right. Plus, I didn't really miss a connection with him, we connected (translation: I stared at him and he kept smiling and didn't notice me that's all the connection I need).
When I finally made it to the fat lady store I walked in and was immediately approached by a bulky woman who could kick my ass and asked if I needed help with anything. I asked her for a belt and tried to be really super fucking nice about it. She was a scary bitch. I bet they hired her to make sure people buy things. Nah, this is Canada there are no clever playing on fear tactics here. Anyway, turns out there were no belts in the entire store except for one: the kind comes attached to the ugliest khaki pants you've ever seen. When I asked the scary woman where a fat girl could buy a belt she suggested the shoestore a few doors down.
But, like I said before, there was no going into the store without buying something (this girl looked like a bulldog on steroids) so I bought a pair of pants or maybe jeans. Since the store had no belts I decided to buy a pair of pants that actually fits me, therefore I would not need a belt. The pair that fit me were made out of denim material and looked like jeans but had no front pockets nor a zipper, or even a button. They were odd. I imagined someone in the heat of passion going to unzip and unbutton them and getting confused and myself being very amused by this and somehow that possible scenario justified spending 50 bucks on them. Now all I have to decide is whether or not to call them my jants or peans. Note: I went to the shoestore and they did have belts. Belts that fit 13 year old anorexics.
Derby Update:
So I have been skating nearly everyday in the comfort of my own room. Tonight was different though 2 things happened:
1. I left my room and skated out in the hallway for a bit feeling like a bad ass.
2. I fell near my bathroom. I landed on my ass and the meaty part of my right hand. (which, btw, I am still typing with) Afterward, I felt pretty damn clever using a bottle of wine for an ice pack.
This evening I finally watched some of the Olympic games. Little did I know that watching the Olympic games is a game in itself. Seriously, the moment between when a figure skater is tossed into air and lands increased my pulse to cardio workout proportions. At the same time though, I went back and forth between wanting them to land safely or botch it up. On the one hand it is nice to see someones hard work to pay off into something beautiful but the cynical side in me wants to see something terrible happen because it is unexpected and awful and therefore (somehow) hilarious.Not only did I have to deal with the skaters I had to deal with the guy sitting next to me who builds robots. How cool is that? I had to stop myself from geeking out asking idiotic questions like: "So this robot you are working on is it like the robot in Revenge of the Nerds II?" Luckily, he quickly explained the entire thing to me, preventing my questioning. The only geeking out I ended up doing was saying: "God, how old are you? You look young." "25," he said. "When's your birthday?" "August," he said and then added, "I am a Virgo." I just nodded in response but inside I was saying, "How did he know that I was thinking, God, you're a Leo, fuck off." Then I remembered how last night's Virgo date went and got all bitchy again and hated myself for immediately thinking when I meet someone new, "Are you a possibility?" I should look into getting spayed. (Note: I actually had to dictionary.com the spelling of spayed) But if I got spayed I couldn't pull of my jeans/pants trick. Shit. Okay, that's enough of how the inside of my head works for one day.
Tip of the Day: Opening a restaurant in Andorra is a viable career option. Why not?
-Canadian Castaway
Valentine's Day (not so) Special
Day 172
I am going to confess right now that I am a huge Valentine's Day fan. I am a freak about it. I buy all sorts of treats and wear red and pink. Shit, I even get excited about finding used red Christmas ribbon to tie into my hair. The funny thing is that I am not all that into giving out gifts (except to myself) but I love receiving them. This fact made it all more the horrible when I skipped hopefully to mailbox only to have it be completely empty. I felt like Charlie Brown (except I didn't check my mailbox 12 times and I am not yet a cartoon character, entirely).
My official Valentines Day celebration began after 3 pm (slept until then). The first thing I did was go to the grocery store to buy salami and coffee. This was a decent start to my V-day celebration. After that I went to supper where it was VAFN (vaguely asian food night) for the 124th time. But, everything was supposed to be okay because I was to go on a date with someone who is super into me (so I'd been told). The last time I had a Valentine's Day date (doesn't matter how long ago, right?) I ended up with four thorny roses and a mohawked boyfriend. This was fun for quite awhile, until he decided to not call me anymore, but whatever dry-humping on his parent's floor and drinking grape juice while watching Monty Python was getting a little old.
Point is, I had a date who was "excited" to be going out with me. The plan was to go have coffee after supper. But, "after supper" could've been defined better by him as: "an hour after Emily is done eating and when I am finally done talking to the girl that is easy to have a crush on." But he is a "nice" person so there were no such definitions. Anyway, instead of sticking to our plans he decided that we should just hang out here after a 15 minute long debate on what to do. God, I felt so important, nothing like abandoning your very vague plans at the last second for no reason to impress a girl. And to really top it off don't get flowers, or a card. And don't put any effort into making any sort of plan at all because you wouldn't want the woman you've been whispering sweet nothings to for months to get the idea that she means anything. (Does that sound bitter? Yes? Good.)
So, after he decided that he would just come over he gets here and brings hot chocolate (which, btw, I hate). I make his cup and he said that some people in the building are watching a movie in 15 minutes and did I want to go. I told him that I didn't and that I thought we were hanging out but if he himself wanted to go that's fine. He made a show of, "No, I'll hang out with you." Then he proceeded to tell me that my staying out until 4 am is crazy and that he is in bed by 11. I offered that we play cards. He agreed to learn a new game, so we headed to a place in the building with a table where I tried (unsuccessfully) to teach this man, with multiple college degrees, a simple card game and he refused to shuffle. Jesus. If that wasn't bad enough he slammed John Wayne and every Western film I like (what do Canadians know about cowboys, really). I can't lie, when a friend came up and announced that she would be watching the movie and asked if we wanted to join her and he decided that "we" would like to I was a little relieved. I was even more relieved when I snuck out the side door and went back to my room.
After this is when I received my Valentines. They came in the form of chats and instead of "Be Mine" or "I love you" they said; "He sounds like a sulky fool to me." "He's an idiot." "Has he hit puberty yet?" "Dorkus." After that Valentine's started pouring in, including in the form of a neighbor who came over and said all sorts of things about how my date is a fuck up. And I realized that I am not Charlie Brown because I realized that Valentine's can come in the form of encouraging co-hatred. In that sense, this has been the most successful V-day in my personal history I just wish I had some Conversation hearts to crunch on.
Well, tomorrow is Tater Tot and Bacon Breakfast day so I better sign off and get my ass to bed. I wish I didn't know that.
Tip of the Day: Never make Valentine's day dates, ever.
-Canadian Castaway
I am going to confess right now that I am a huge Valentine's Day fan. I am a freak about it. I buy all sorts of treats and wear red and pink. Shit, I even get excited about finding used red Christmas ribbon to tie into my hair. The funny thing is that I am not all that into giving out gifts (except to myself) but I love receiving them. This fact made it all more the horrible when I skipped hopefully to mailbox only to have it be completely empty. I felt like Charlie Brown (except I didn't check my mailbox 12 times and I am not yet a cartoon character, entirely).
My official Valentines Day celebration began after 3 pm (slept until then). The first thing I did was go to the grocery store to buy salami and coffee. This was a decent start to my V-day celebration. After that I went to supper where it was VAFN (vaguely asian food night) for the 124th time. But, everything was supposed to be okay because I was to go on a date with someone who is super into me (so I'd been told). The last time I had a Valentine's Day date (doesn't matter how long ago, right?) I ended up with four thorny roses and a mohawked boyfriend. This was fun for quite awhile, until he decided to not call me anymore, but whatever dry-humping on his parent's floor and drinking grape juice while watching Monty Python was getting a little old.
Point is, I had a date who was "excited" to be going out with me. The plan was to go have coffee after supper. But, "after supper" could've been defined better by him as: "an hour after Emily is done eating and when I am finally done talking to the girl that is easy to have a crush on." But he is a "nice" person so there were no such definitions. Anyway, instead of sticking to our plans he decided that we should just hang out here after a 15 minute long debate on what to do. God, I felt so important, nothing like abandoning your very vague plans at the last second for no reason to impress a girl. And to really top it off don't get flowers, or a card. And don't put any effort into making any sort of plan at all because you wouldn't want the woman you've been whispering sweet nothings to for months to get the idea that she means anything. (Does that sound bitter? Yes? Good.)
So, after he decided that he would just come over he gets here and brings hot chocolate (which, btw, I hate). I make his cup and he said that some people in the building are watching a movie in 15 minutes and did I want to go. I told him that I didn't and that I thought we were hanging out but if he himself wanted to go that's fine. He made a show of, "No, I'll hang out with you." Then he proceeded to tell me that my staying out until 4 am is crazy and that he is in bed by 11. I offered that we play cards. He agreed to learn a new game, so we headed to a place in the building with a table where I tried (unsuccessfully) to teach this man, with multiple college degrees, a simple card game and he refused to shuffle. Jesus. If that wasn't bad enough he slammed John Wayne and every Western film I like (what do Canadians know about cowboys, really). I can't lie, when a friend came up and announced that she would be watching the movie and asked if we wanted to join her and he decided that "we" would like to I was a little relieved. I was even more relieved when I snuck out the side door and went back to my room.
After this is when I received my Valentines. They came in the form of chats and instead of "Be Mine" or "I love you" they said; "He sounds like a sulky fool to me." "He's an idiot." "Has he hit puberty yet?" "Dorkus." After that Valentine's started pouring in, including in the form of a neighbor who came over and said all sorts of things about how my date is a fuck up. And I realized that I am not Charlie Brown because I realized that Valentine's can come in the form of encouraging co-hatred. In that sense, this has been the most successful V-day in my personal history I just wish I had some Conversation hearts to crunch on.
Well, tomorrow is Tater Tot and Bacon Breakfast day so I better sign off and get my ass to bed. I wish I didn't know that.
Tip of the Day: Never make Valentine's day dates, ever.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Napping Away, Farting on People, Party People Extravaganza
Day 171
So, my punishment was lifted today long enough for me to go to a party. The time is now: 3:33 am so I will make this brief.
Before the party I was all whiny about the rainy shit weather we have been having so I pouted for about 6 hours before I just crawled back into bed. When I emerged 45 minutes later all was cured. As it turns out I am a baby. Seriously, when I get fussy just put me to bed. Just think, if this were true for everyone on earth (and who knows it may be). Bam! There goes anti-depressants.
While I was getting ready for the party I google video chatted with my niece and her mother. Here is a snippet of what was actually said:
Niece's mother about niece: Yeah, this one here always comes over and pretends to give me a hug just so she can fart on me.
Me to Child: You don't do that do you?
Child: YES! HAHAHAHA!
I love that kid. I may employ her strategy on people I don't really like or just find a five year old to do it for me.
Tonight's party was a fiasco of drinking, eating, singing and playing games. If it weren't for the drinking one would've thought they were at a child's party--a poor child's party as there were no party favors, pin the tail on the donkey contests, hats, or pinatas. Had these items been there I would never have wanted it to end. Here is what we did instead:
-Leg wrestling. Which was scary and sad. Scary when the big guy kicked the little guy and you could hear it and sad because one girl's crotch was wet and everyone saw it. But, it all turned out okay, she was completely oblivious to it, but she did lose her match. The best part though was that nobody could agree on the rules so we actually wikipedia-ed it.
-Back rub chains. Seriously, I don't know how these things start but they always end up with all the men rubbing each other. So, not all bad. I will note that my playing farm on people's backs was not as popular as expected.
-Two-handed slap and thumb wars. Canadians do some sort of "Kiss, kiss..." line when they play thumb wars and some of them are awfully scary about two-handed slap.
-Stella Ella Ola. This is some sort of Canadian version of the game where you go around the circle chanting, slapping hands in a relay and counting to ten. This is something that is played in the States there it's called something like: Oboe Shin Atin Tot In."
-Arm wrestling. This I mostly watched and made bets on. When it came my turn I took on the strongest female in the bunch and we held each other even left-handed until I gave up, out of boredom.
-Singing. We sang Hallelujah, Oh Canada, and some Neutral Milk Hotel. But, when they started up with the Mamas and the Papas I will admit I got a little creeped out. There is nothing so horrifying as a group of drunk Canadians singing, California Dreamin'.
Tip of the Day: Don't stay out until 3 am, it's usually not worth it. Go home at 2:30.
-Canadian Castaway
So, my punishment was lifted today long enough for me to go to a party. The time is now: 3:33 am so I will make this brief.
Before the party I was all whiny about the rainy shit weather we have been having so I pouted for about 6 hours before I just crawled back into bed. When I emerged 45 minutes later all was cured. As it turns out I am a baby. Seriously, when I get fussy just put me to bed. Just think, if this were true for everyone on earth (and who knows it may be). Bam! There goes anti-depressants.
While I was getting ready for the party I google video chatted with my niece and her mother. Here is a snippet of what was actually said:
Niece's mother about niece: Yeah, this one here always comes over and pretends to give me a hug just so she can fart on me.
Me to Child: You don't do that do you?
Child: YES! HAHAHAHA!
I love that kid. I may employ her strategy on people I don't really like or just find a five year old to do it for me.
Tonight's party was a fiasco of drinking, eating, singing and playing games. If it weren't for the drinking one would've thought they were at a child's party--a poor child's party as there were no party favors, pin the tail on the donkey contests, hats, or pinatas. Had these items been there I would never have wanted it to end. Here is what we did instead:
-Leg wrestling. Which was scary and sad. Scary when the big guy kicked the little guy and you could hear it and sad because one girl's crotch was wet and everyone saw it. But, it all turned out okay, she was completely oblivious to it, but she did lose her match. The best part though was that nobody could agree on the rules so we actually wikipedia-ed it.
-Back rub chains. Seriously, I don't know how these things start but they always end up with all the men rubbing each other. So, not all bad. I will note that my playing farm on people's backs was not as popular as expected.
-Two-handed slap and thumb wars. Canadians do some sort of "Kiss, kiss..." line when they play thumb wars and some of them are awfully scary about two-handed slap.
-Stella Ella Ola. This is some sort of Canadian version of the game where you go around the circle chanting, slapping hands in a relay and counting to ten. This is something that is played in the States there it's called something like: Oboe Shin Atin Tot In."
-Arm wrestling. This I mostly watched and made bets on. When it came my turn I took on the strongest female in the bunch and we held each other even left-handed until I gave up, out of boredom.
-Singing. We sang Hallelujah, Oh Canada, and some Neutral Milk Hotel. But, when they started up with the Mamas and the Papas I will admit I got a little creeped out. There is nothing so horrifying as a group of drunk Canadians singing, California Dreamin'.
Tip of the Day: Don't stay out until 3 am, it's usually not worth it. Go home at 2:30.
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, February 12, 2010
Personal Punishment and Opening Ceremony Wrap Up
Day 170
I could be at an erotic party right now with stripping, bondage lessons, and a kissing booth, but I am being punished. I have gone out far too much lately and so I have punished myself to stay in for once. I am also getting a sore throat which reminds me that making out with strangers could lead to mononucleosis, although that's never happened the last 20 or so times I've done it. Anyway, staying in and watching Cambodian burned DVDs isn't the punishment, it's more so the eating of vegetables and not drinking that is doing me in. This sucks. Vegetables are really not that great. Honestly, I don't even know the name of the green shit I ate tonight but I choked down two handfuls. I almost have to drink a pitcher of Tang to make up for all the healthy eating going on around here, only I don't have a pitcher.
Most of my day besides the vegetable eating part was spent craving meat, eating meat, and watching the opening ceremonies for the Olympics. Here are a few observations about the opening ceremonies:
-What the fuck was up with the Nova-type narration sequences of alleged storytelling? Seriously, until the big giant bear came up through the floor I was sleeping.
-After having spoken to several people who watched the ceremonies elsewhere what will be remembered about Nelly Furtado and whoever that guy was is the fact that her dress was stretched damn tight. According to my unofficial poll, I wasn't the only one who noticed how she couldn't move or breathe deeply.
-Nikki whatsherface did an okay job of singing the anthem. I would have preferred it be sung by Alanis. One time in a bar in the middle of Wisconsin early in the day I was sitting with a few friends drinking beer and the Stanley Cup was on the television. It was a year where it was the U.S. versus Canada. Alanis came out and sang my native anthem nicely but to little fanfare but when she busted out Oh Canada I cried. It was moving and I am not even a native. I awed at the pride and spirit she put into it and how the audience sang louder than her. Tonight though, all I could think about when Nikki was singing was, "Damn, that girl has a big mouth."
-Speaking of big mouths and big hair, wasn't that opera singer amazing? She would've been amazing for her big hair and gold dress alone, but she could really sing. Usually, I hate opera but that was before I listened to hair opera.
-The First Nations people were incredible; who knew they would have to dance through the entire entrances of the Olympians. It's too bad that the decorations they had looked like giant ice sculpted penises.
-So I must admit my ignorance, (okay, so that's pretty much the theme of this blog, I know) I am not even sure if I have ever heard of Andorra but damn there are some sexy people from there. There were plenty of gorgeous people from other countries as well. When I watched the ceremonies on the big screen at the pub my co-workers and I were pretty much commentators on the entire ceremony, but we only had two different comments between the six of us that kept repeating: "He's hot." or "She's hot." I guess we all learned something tonight: people from all over the world are hot, and everyone who works at the pub is horny.
-I am not sure where or even if they train announcers for these type of events but I was pretty disappointed with the commentators on TV when they made such a big show of the pieces of the cauldron not all erecting themselves. Seriously, had they not said anything Vancouver wouldn't have looked so bad. There must be some sort of etiquette involved with live reporting. Right? I am going to assume they were non-Canadian reporters because if they were Canadian they would have not said anything out of kindness.
-Okay so I know that in Canada English and French are spoken (in some parts), but was it necessary to have that annoying woman saying everything that was already said but saying it in French?
-K.D. Lang tore that shit up with "Hallelujah." It was kick ass. It was the only singing, besides that weird opera chick, that seemed heartfelt. All of my friends were impressed especially the one who said at the end, "Wait, that's a chick? No fucking way." Then I wondered how many millions of people around the world had mistaken K.D. for a man.
-When Donald Sutherland came on screen I was the first to shout, "He is hot!" Applause ensued.
-What was up with having poor Wayne carry that mother effing torch in the rain for twenty minutes in the back of a truck? I bet his arm hurt like hell. Then, watching him jog after he had finally got out of that truck made me want to well up with my newly found Canadian pride at his athleticism and good sportsmanship.
-My personal favorite part was the crazy fiddle off, in particular, the way that the guy wearing a blanket/skirt/kilt-type thing did high rock and roll kicks exposing his upper thigh.
Well, that's all I have to say about that. Tomorrow my punishment will be temporarily lifted so as to make it okay for me to purchase a 2 liter of cider and go to a friends house. I love my friends, sure, but that doesn't mean I can hang out with them when I am sober.
Tip of the Day: If you are being punished without booze or candy watching Mad TV clips on youtube will make you feel better.
-Canadian Castaway
I could be at an erotic party right now with stripping, bondage lessons, and a kissing booth, but I am being punished. I have gone out far too much lately and so I have punished myself to stay in for once. I am also getting a sore throat which reminds me that making out with strangers could lead to mononucleosis, although that's never happened the last 20 or so times I've done it. Anyway, staying in and watching Cambodian burned DVDs isn't the punishment, it's more so the eating of vegetables and not drinking that is doing me in. This sucks. Vegetables are really not that great. Honestly, I don't even know the name of the green shit I ate tonight but I choked down two handfuls. I almost have to drink a pitcher of Tang to make up for all the healthy eating going on around here, only I don't have a pitcher.
Most of my day besides the vegetable eating part was spent craving meat, eating meat, and watching the opening ceremonies for the Olympics. Here are a few observations about the opening ceremonies:
-What the fuck was up with the Nova-type narration sequences of alleged storytelling? Seriously, until the big giant bear came up through the floor I was sleeping.
-After having spoken to several people who watched the ceremonies elsewhere what will be remembered about Nelly Furtado and whoever that guy was is the fact that her dress was stretched damn tight. According to my unofficial poll, I wasn't the only one who noticed how she couldn't move or breathe deeply.
-Nikki whatsherface did an okay job of singing the anthem. I would have preferred it be sung by Alanis. One time in a bar in the middle of Wisconsin early in the day I was sitting with a few friends drinking beer and the Stanley Cup was on the television. It was a year where it was the U.S. versus Canada. Alanis came out and sang my native anthem nicely but to little fanfare but when she busted out Oh Canada I cried. It was moving and I am not even a native. I awed at the pride and spirit she put into it and how the audience sang louder than her. Tonight though, all I could think about when Nikki was singing was, "Damn, that girl has a big mouth."
-Speaking of big mouths and big hair, wasn't that opera singer amazing? She would've been amazing for her big hair and gold dress alone, but she could really sing. Usually, I hate opera but that was before I listened to hair opera.
-The First Nations people were incredible; who knew they would have to dance through the entire entrances of the Olympians. It's too bad that the decorations they had looked like giant ice sculpted penises.
-So I must admit my ignorance, (okay, so that's pretty much the theme of this blog, I know) I am not even sure if I have ever heard of Andorra but damn there are some sexy people from there. There were plenty of gorgeous people from other countries as well. When I watched the ceremonies on the big screen at the pub my co-workers and I were pretty much commentators on the entire ceremony, but we only had two different comments between the six of us that kept repeating: "He's hot." or "She's hot." I guess we all learned something tonight: people from all over the world are hot, and everyone who works at the pub is horny.
-I am not sure where or even if they train announcers for these type of events but I was pretty disappointed with the commentators on TV when they made such a big show of the pieces of the cauldron not all erecting themselves. Seriously, had they not said anything Vancouver wouldn't have looked so bad. There must be some sort of etiquette involved with live reporting. Right? I am going to assume they were non-Canadian reporters because if they were Canadian they would have not said anything out of kindness.
-Okay so I know that in Canada English and French are spoken (in some parts), but was it necessary to have that annoying woman saying everything that was already said but saying it in French?
-K.D. Lang tore that shit up with "Hallelujah." It was kick ass. It was the only singing, besides that weird opera chick, that seemed heartfelt. All of my friends were impressed especially the one who said at the end, "Wait, that's a chick? No fucking way." Then I wondered how many millions of people around the world had mistaken K.D. for a man.
-When Donald Sutherland came on screen I was the first to shout, "He is hot!" Applause ensued.
-What was up with having poor Wayne carry that mother effing torch in the rain for twenty minutes in the back of a truck? I bet his arm hurt like hell. Then, watching him jog after he had finally got out of that truck made me want to well up with my newly found Canadian pride at his athleticism and good sportsmanship.
-My personal favorite part was the crazy fiddle off, in particular, the way that the guy wearing a blanket/skirt/kilt-type thing did high rock and roll kicks exposing his upper thigh.
Well, that's all I have to say about that. Tomorrow my punishment will be temporarily lifted so as to make it okay for me to purchase a 2 liter of cider and go to a friends house. I love my friends, sure, but that doesn't mean I can hang out with them when I am sober.
Tip of the Day: If you are being punished without booze or candy watching Mad TV clips on youtube will make you feel better.
-Canadian Castaway
Reading Aloud, 5 Fucking Minutes, Fuck!, What You Eat, Torches, Drunk Girl
Day 169
There is nothing weirder than reading aloud to yourself and imagining people in the hallway walking by and hearing it. Sure, at first they may think, "Oh she must be on the phone." The rambling continues and then they must think, "I just knew that girl was nuts." Then they turn to their companion and say, "You owe me twenty bucks." This is what I thought was going on every time I rehearsed the piece of writing I was to read tonight at the reading that I somehow got duped into doing. My imagining that other people thought I may be crazy made me email a few friends (including a guy that may become more than a friend and is extremely awkward to be around) to come and listen to me read so there was another voice for hallway listeners.
So, after I cut down the piece of writing that was requested by several of my classmates for me to read at tonight's festivities I started chatting with a friend of mine who was also reading at the event. Naturally, I asked him what he would be reading and he said that he was going to be reading a 2 page story about the first time he fell in love. Then, he asked me if I was reading the story that everybody so loved in class. I told him I was and that I had gotten it down to ten pages. He said, "You can't read ten pages, just read excerpts." I told him that it only took me like 12 minutes to read it, that I had timed it. He told me that I only had 5 minutes to read.
How ridiculous. If they want me to read then why can't I read. I mean shit, 5 minutes. My mother can't even take a piss and wash her hands in 5 minutes. I went out of my mind all of that reading aloud and imagining people hearing how nutty I was for nothing. "Just read excerpts, it'll be fine,"my friend said. "You are pissing me off and making me go into hysterics," I said. "I have to go." Immediately after, I phoned my mother to bitch about it all, only to hear that she is losing her job then I felt bad for even giving a shit about what I could or could not read at an event that in the long run doesn't really matter at all. "Sorry," my mom said. "What were you gonna say to me? I didn't mean to bitch your ear off. Tell me something good." Fuck!
Anyway, as you can tell I am in a pissy mood. I am starting to think I should use "You are what you eat" defense. I mean seriously, let's take a look at what I ate today:
-Carribean Jerk Chicken
-2 glasses of Tang
-5 cups of coffee
-one bag of berry Skittles minus the blue ones
-Habenero and Guacamole Doritos
-Chocolate cake with Bacon pieces and maple-flavored icing (no shit)
-one can of hard cider
-one beer with the label, Pilsner (no brand name at all)
-a blue and green lollypop
-one Filet 'o Fish meal
-4 eyeball-sized lychees
So, you mix that all up and what does that make me? I'll give you a hint, it rhymes with witch.
On my way to the reading I noticed around 5,000 people up the street. Apparently, the Olympic torch was coming. I waited in the crowd in pouring rain for 35 minutes and then 2 fire trucks drove past, a short bus full of people in matching outfits rolled by, a bus crammed with people on laptops came by, 15 police officers on matching Harley's were next and another vehicle that was had a camera in the back and finally a person in silver holding a flaming piece of metal. This lasted a total of 2 minutes. Then, all of the 5,000 people turned to each other in amazement. I turned to my neighbor and said, "Now what are we supposed to do?" Someone offered, "Get drunk!" What I actually did was walk to the bus and ring up people back home to tell them how I had seen the Olympic torch. They asked how it was with enthusiasm and I said back, "It was awesome." I think I may have to redefine awesome in the dictionary as, "something cold and wet and not all that impressive but will be remembered as a great moment for no particular reason other than I was present for it."
Usually I am not one for drunk people, especially when I am very near sober. I am also never one for drunk people on buses who look like they are going to puke. But, tonight I was proved wrong. There was something really endearing about the drunk girl who had such a hard time getting into a seat (she sat on the floor on her way in). I don't know if it was the way she asked random strangers if they were having a good time or commenting as to what she was thinking about them, "You look important!" It could've been the way when one of the ice cubes her friend was putting into her mouth fell into her hoodie she just laughed, left it there and two minutes later said, "I can't feel it yet!" It could also be that she and her friend offered everyone on the bus lollypops that they had stolen from somewhere at the airport. Or the way she kept her McDonalds cup close to her chest in case she needed to puke. But I think it was more so in the way she said things. Here is my favorite thing she said:
Friend: "Remember tonight that lady who told you to watch where you were going and you told her that she needed to get out of your way or you'd knock her down?"
Drunk Girl: "Hahahahaha. Yeah, so? She had better look out. I am gonna knock her down!"
Friend: "She was like 95 years old."
Drunk Girl: "So?"
Friend: "So, you should respect seniors."
Drunk Girl: "Why?"
Friend: "Because, that's what you are supposed to do."
Drunk Girl: "Not me! I don't discriminate against age or sex or anything I treat everyone equally!"
Tip of the Day: When you are eating a sucker that some drunk girl gave you on the bus try not to wonder halfway through where exactly it came from.
-Canadian Castaway
There is nothing weirder than reading aloud to yourself and imagining people in the hallway walking by and hearing it. Sure, at first they may think, "Oh she must be on the phone." The rambling continues and then they must think, "I just knew that girl was nuts." Then they turn to their companion and say, "You owe me twenty bucks." This is what I thought was going on every time I rehearsed the piece of writing I was to read tonight at the reading that I somehow got duped into doing. My imagining that other people thought I may be crazy made me email a few friends (including a guy that may become more than a friend and is extremely awkward to be around) to come and listen to me read so there was another voice for hallway listeners.
So, after I cut down the piece of writing that was requested by several of my classmates for me to read at tonight's festivities I started chatting with a friend of mine who was also reading at the event. Naturally, I asked him what he would be reading and he said that he was going to be reading a 2 page story about the first time he fell in love. Then, he asked me if I was reading the story that everybody so loved in class. I told him I was and that I had gotten it down to ten pages. He said, "You can't read ten pages, just read excerpts." I told him that it only took me like 12 minutes to read it, that I had timed it. He told me that I only had 5 minutes to read.
How ridiculous. If they want me to read then why can't I read. I mean shit, 5 minutes. My mother can't even take a piss and wash her hands in 5 minutes. I went out of my mind all of that reading aloud and imagining people hearing how nutty I was for nothing. "Just read excerpts, it'll be fine,"my friend said. "You are pissing me off and making me go into hysterics," I said. "I have to go." Immediately after, I phoned my mother to bitch about it all, only to hear that she is losing her job then I felt bad for even giving a shit about what I could or could not read at an event that in the long run doesn't really matter at all. "Sorry," my mom said. "What were you gonna say to me? I didn't mean to bitch your ear off. Tell me something good." Fuck!
Anyway, as you can tell I am in a pissy mood. I am starting to think I should use "You are what you eat" defense. I mean seriously, let's take a look at what I ate today:
-Carribean Jerk Chicken
-2 glasses of Tang
-5 cups of coffee
-one bag of berry Skittles minus the blue ones
-Habenero and Guacamole Doritos
-Chocolate cake with Bacon pieces and maple-flavored icing (no shit)
-one can of hard cider
-one beer with the label, Pilsner (no brand name at all)
-a blue and green lollypop
-one Filet 'o Fish meal
-4 eyeball-sized lychees
So, you mix that all up and what does that make me? I'll give you a hint, it rhymes with witch.
On my way to the reading I noticed around 5,000 people up the street. Apparently, the Olympic torch was coming. I waited in the crowd in pouring rain for 35 minutes and then 2 fire trucks drove past, a short bus full of people in matching outfits rolled by, a bus crammed with people on laptops came by, 15 police officers on matching Harley's were next and another vehicle that was had a camera in the back and finally a person in silver holding a flaming piece of metal. This lasted a total of 2 minutes. Then, all of the 5,000 people turned to each other in amazement. I turned to my neighbor and said, "Now what are we supposed to do?" Someone offered, "Get drunk!" What I actually did was walk to the bus and ring up people back home to tell them how I had seen the Olympic torch. They asked how it was with enthusiasm and I said back, "It was awesome." I think I may have to redefine awesome in the dictionary as, "something cold and wet and not all that impressive but will be remembered as a great moment for no particular reason other than I was present for it."
Usually I am not one for drunk people, especially when I am very near sober. I am also never one for drunk people on buses who look like they are going to puke. But, tonight I was proved wrong. There was something really endearing about the drunk girl who had such a hard time getting into a seat (she sat on the floor on her way in). I don't know if it was the way she asked random strangers if they were having a good time or commenting as to what she was thinking about them, "You look important!" It could've been the way when one of the ice cubes her friend was putting into her mouth fell into her hoodie she just laughed, left it there and two minutes later said, "I can't feel it yet!" It could also be that she and her friend offered everyone on the bus lollypops that they had stolen from somewhere at the airport. Or the way she kept her McDonalds cup close to her chest in case she needed to puke. But I think it was more so in the way she said things. Here is my favorite thing she said:
Friend: "Remember tonight that lady who told you to watch where you were going and you told her that she needed to get out of your way or you'd knock her down?"
Drunk Girl: "Hahahahaha. Yeah, so? She had better look out. I am gonna knock her down!"
Friend: "She was like 95 years old."
Drunk Girl: "So?"
Friend: "So, you should respect seniors."
Drunk Girl: "Why?"
Friend: "Because, that's what you are supposed to do."
Drunk Girl: "Not me! I don't discriminate against age or sex or anything I treat everyone equally!"
Tip of the Day: When you are eating a sucker that some drunk girl gave you on the bus try not to wonder halfway through where exactly it came from.
-Canadian Castaway
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Emily Did It, Driving in a Sedan, Sort of Teaching, Fan of Fridges
Day 168
So this morning I was faced with a decision: do I keep the baby or not. Just kidding. The choice was to sleep more or drag my ass to breakfast. I chose food. This was a stupid choice, but I did hear something this morning. I heard that a friend of mine who wrote a raunchy text to another friend of mine wrote her a text the next day saying that I had taken his phone, written, and sent the raunchy text of the night before. From this experience I learned the following:
1. The guy who wrote that is a dickwad.
2. I have no idea what is going on, ever. Seriously, this shit went down over a week ago and this is the first I have heard of it.
3. While him doing this to me is him being a dickwad this tactic could be invaluable when you drunkenly text someone something horrid or embarrassing. But, you should text the person you blame first to let them know you are using them as your scapegoat, unless you are bored and want to start a mini-drama (like dickwad).
Most of my daytime hours were spent driving. That's right, bleotchs, someone lent me a car. Anyway, the best part about driving across town was when there was public service-type announcement encouraging the citizens of this city to take the bus or walk places. It made me feel like such a defiant bad ass to be driving a Taurus. This is the only circumstance I have come across where a Taurus driver is allowed to feel bad ass in anyway. (Note: Drivers of things like Astrovans are NEVER allowed to feel even the slightest hint of bad assery)
All of this driving led me to the high school where I am currently co-teaching an after school program with an outspoken friend of mine. Generally, I am just as outspoken but at this school I mostly just have an inner running monologue that goes exactly like this: "Don't say fuck. Don't say shit. Don't say fuck. Don't say shit." Today was a special day though, not only was I driving myself over there, but my co-teacher had to ditch out on me, and left me to deal with the 16-18 year olds on my own (I guess this is what you do if your boyfriend is closing on a house). I kept telling myself it was no big deal. But here is what came in between my everything-is-going-to-be-fine self encouragements: "Don't say fuck. Don't say shit. Don't say fuck. Don't say shit."
I went in there hoping to see only a couple kids, what I saw was a whackload (Canadian term meaning a lot) of kids pulling together tables to make room for the horde. I handed out my printouts on first sentences, they did a free write, they shared their writing, they laughed and we spent most of our time talking about marijuana. A couple of the kids are on a debate team that is looking at whether or not to legalize marijuana and we offered ideas to the group and had a mock debate of our own. It was then I realized that my entire life has been a lie. I always strut around acting like I don't care if people like me, but now I must amend this attitude as I totally care whether or not high school kids like me. I wondered if it was bad that I let them go on and laugh and talk about pot and Kanye West? But, when they stayed late and were all smiling I didn't care. When they demanded that our writing group meet every week instead of every other I felt like I was prom queen and damn being royalty feels good.
So last night I couldn't get my fan to work. I turned it on and the motor sounded like a machine gun. Then I would think, Oh, I'll just turn it off and back on and it won't make that noise anymore. I turned it off and back on and it made the same noise and I moved on to the thought, If I put it on the higher setting it may not make that noise. I put it on a higher setting and it made the same noise, but louder. This pattern of the same thoughts and tests went on and repeated for a half an hour. I kept at it because I can't sleep without the fan running. I know this is so friggin un-green of me but I can't do it. Shit, I can't pay attention in my favorite class if someone is sitting next to me can you imagine me falling asleep being able to hear all sorts of small noises? But, once again my favorite 15 dollar antique saved the day. At about 4 am my 1980's refrigerator kicked in and started to hum and I fell asleep. Not only does it keep my wine cold it saves the night. I am considering ditching my Valentine date to take my fridge out on the town. Alright, it's running right now, so I better get to bed or have the war with the fan Part 2.
Tip of the Day: Eyeball-shaped lychee make excellent items to throw across a dining hall.
-Canadian Castaway
So this morning I was faced with a decision: do I keep the baby or not. Just kidding. The choice was to sleep more or drag my ass to breakfast. I chose food. This was a stupid choice, but I did hear something this morning. I heard that a friend of mine who wrote a raunchy text to another friend of mine wrote her a text the next day saying that I had taken his phone, written, and sent the raunchy text of the night before. From this experience I learned the following:
1. The guy who wrote that is a dickwad.
2. I have no idea what is going on, ever. Seriously, this shit went down over a week ago and this is the first I have heard of it.
3. While him doing this to me is him being a dickwad this tactic could be invaluable when you drunkenly text someone something horrid or embarrassing. But, you should text the person you blame first to let them know you are using them as your scapegoat, unless you are bored and want to start a mini-drama (like dickwad).
Most of my daytime hours were spent driving. That's right, bleotchs, someone lent me a car. Anyway, the best part about driving across town was when there was public service-type announcement encouraging the citizens of this city to take the bus or walk places. It made me feel like such a defiant bad ass to be driving a Taurus. This is the only circumstance I have come across where a Taurus driver is allowed to feel bad ass in anyway. (Note: Drivers of things like Astrovans are NEVER allowed to feel even the slightest hint of bad assery)
All of this driving led me to the high school where I am currently co-teaching an after school program with an outspoken friend of mine. Generally, I am just as outspoken but at this school I mostly just have an inner running monologue that goes exactly like this: "Don't say fuck. Don't say shit. Don't say fuck. Don't say shit." Today was a special day though, not only was I driving myself over there, but my co-teacher had to ditch out on me, and left me to deal with the 16-18 year olds on my own (I guess this is what you do if your boyfriend is closing on a house). I kept telling myself it was no big deal. But here is what came in between my everything-is-going-to-be-fine self encouragements: "Don't say fuck. Don't say shit. Don't say fuck. Don't say shit."
I went in there hoping to see only a couple kids, what I saw was a whackload (Canadian term meaning a lot) of kids pulling together tables to make room for the horde. I handed out my printouts on first sentences, they did a free write, they shared their writing, they laughed and we spent most of our time talking about marijuana. A couple of the kids are on a debate team that is looking at whether or not to legalize marijuana and we offered ideas to the group and had a mock debate of our own. It was then I realized that my entire life has been a lie. I always strut around acting like I don't care if people like me, but now I must amend this attitude as I totally care whether or not high school kids like me. I wondered if it was bad that I let them go on and laugh and talk about pot and Kanye West? But, when they stayed late and were all smiling I didn't care. When they demanded that our writing group meet every week instead of every other I felt like I was prom queen and damn being royalty feels good.
So last night I couldn't get my fan to work. I turned it on and the motor sounded like a machine gun. Then I would think, Oh, I'll just turn it off and back on and it won't make that noise anymore. I turned it off and back on and it made the same noise and I moved on to the thought, If I put it on the higher setting it may not make that noise. I put it on a higher setting and it made the same noise, but louder. This pattern of the same thoughts and tests went on and repeated for a half an hour. I kept at it because I can't sleep without the fan running. I know this is so friggin un-green of me but I can't do it. Shit, I can't pay attention in my favorite class if someone is sitting next to me can you imagine me falling asleep being able to hear all sorts of small noises? But, once again my favorite 15 dollar antique saved the day. At about 4 am my 1980's refrigerator kicked in and started to hum and I fell asleep. Not only does it keep my wine cold it saves the night. I am considering ditching my Valentine date to take my fridge out on the town. Alright, it's running right now, so I better get to bed or have the war with the fan Part 2.
Tip of the Day: Eyeball-shaped lychee make excellent items to throw across a dining hall.
-Canadian Castaway
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