Day 216
So, it is now 2:48 am. I am not that close to sober. Here is a quick re-cap:
Canadian government websites suck just as bad as U.S. websites. I was guessing that this wasn't going to be the case. I was guessing that when a log-in page to get a work permit doesn't load in Canada there would be some sort of recording that says, "I'm sorry" on repeat. There isn't. Instead, I am left feeling like there is some sort of Canadian code against allowing foreigners to work here. This could definitely be the case. But, now I am more curious than ever to see what sorts of questions are on the application for a work permit if the application even exists. Are they gonna ask me if I can sing the national anthem, or name the provinces? Maybe I indeed am ill-equipped to be employed in this country.
After I gave up on the website I met up with a friend of mine who has a copy code to the massive copy machine in my department. He and I scanned a few documents that the fickle Canadian website might need me to provide them. But, not only did the machine scan them, instead of printing them out it sent the images as PDFs to my email account. This may not sound all that exciting but, believe me it is. Now, if I can get a copy code I can fuck around with the copy machine all I want, and secretly send the images to my email, so as not to leave any evidence of me photocopying weird Aragorn collages or my ass. This seems like it may come in handy.
After the scanning and such I went to the bank where I stood in line forever, only to get a teller that not only had a voice that is so soothing I am nearly falling asleep, but who is also taking care of two other things at the same time, and fucking with my accounts, and saying, "God, I am so tired." This would be fine and understandable, if it were to only happen occasionally, but it happens every time I go to the bank. What the hell is all the ruckus about? Don't most people do online banking these days? Do they really have it that rough anymore?
Then I went to school. While in the lounge I christened myself DJ. I was playing, Devo, Bowie, and Michael Jackson. My classmates were teaching each other to moonwalk, and shaking their asses. People would drift in and out, seeing the dancing fools, and laugh and join in. All was well until, I looked just outside the open door. Across the hallway was the grad advisor sitting in his office, door open, meeting with student, and making a waving signal that could've meant many things. The next time I looked, he had closed his door. Guess, closing the door may be Canadian for, "Shut the hell up!"
Then, for the next many hours my fellow schoolmates and I went out for drinks. Here are a few high and low lights:
A beer was spilled in my lap by someone else, but they blamed me for it.
There was an inexplicable snowman rabbit out front with a bottle cap nose and one olive for an eye. It has not snowed here at all this year.
When a group of writers gets together they cast themselves in roles of Lord of the Rings, apparently. All I know is that no one is going to take the role of Eowyn from me. Also, it was a collective decscion that none of us are good enough at heart to be Samwise.
I asked my bodyguard why he doesn't tell anyone anything about himself, specifically, why doesn't he tell me things when I tell him everything. He informed me that he does tell people stuff, but those people aren't me. Gee, thanks for the friendship, not.
My friend got drunk and told me that I am rude for making the professor laugh while she was talking (even though it had nothing to do with her, and happened weeks ago). It's kind of hard to not talk when she is talking if she is talking nearly the whole time. But, instead of pointing that out I said, "I am sorry." Fuck, I am so Canadian.
The girl sitting next to me bit me, twice.
I commanded all the boys at the table to never wear flannel, for fear that I would become attracted to them.
All in all, just another shitty night at the bar.
Tip of the Day: When your friend asks you if she should befriend a 17 year old boy on facebook as she just spent quite sometime getting to know him on chat roulette always say, "Yes!"
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Ahh Learning You Bitch, War Cries, Drama-dy, Emily Coping Guide, Spin the Bottle No!
Day 215
Today was the day of two workshops. It all began with mushy tater tots and three pieces of bacon. I went to class fully expecting a beating. During a class where you are workshopped, your peers that have read the piece you wrote and make comments aloud on it and there is a discussion that you aren't supposed to be a part of. This is why I came to Canada, to get harassed. Smart, eh? (note the Canadian inflection) I guess this is called learning.
The first workshop went well, for me, but a classmate of mine got nitpicked about the style of his piece. Me and another student stood up for him. This resulted in a fight about each other not getting the story and that it doesn't have to be logical and blah. That ended with an odd girl in class making a funny joke about indenting paragraphs (yeah, we laugh at shit like that). Although the war ended without blood shed, I still wonder if my friend and I could've taken on the loud mouth girl and the entire rest of the class including our sexy substitute prof. Maybe, he'd join our side. Instead of actually fighting each other though I just pushed the button my dinosaur pen to make it roar. Nobody understood this to be a war cry so class was dismissed and we got sandwiches.
The second workshop of the day was for TV class. I was all drama, though I am writing a comedy. (lame joke) Anyway, the teacher asked the same questions as she asked me last draft, "What is out of balance for these characters? What is this series about?" I answered her questions and she made a "not good enough" sound. And then, I lost it. I said, "You said that last time, and I worked really hard on this rewrite. I spent many, many hours figuring this shit out. And, I still don't get it. What the fuck do I need to do, huh? I am willing to do it. I am going to keep writing this show until I get it right or until I die." Okay, so I didn't notice that was dramatic until the entire class refused to comment on my script, at all.
Here is an inventory of shit one should do when they are overcome with PMS and feeling sorry for themselves:
-nearly cry at dinner, twice.
-watch "Charlie bit me" and "Numa Numa" videos over and over, laugh hysterically
-put a pathetic poor-me update on Facebook
-Watch all (3) episodes of "My Life As Liz" even though it kinda sucks and makes you feel like a less cool loser than the "loser" girl on the show.
-listen to the Geto Boys, "Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta"
-try to convince people via chat that you are a ninja.
-drink one glass of wine and 5 glasses of chai tea.
-watch the first episode of Carnivale and wonder who that fucking preacher is and how that woman got so many coins in her mouth.
-think about the boy you can't have waaaaaaaaaaaay to much, so much that you hate yourself for it, but you can't hate him no matter how hard you try, and thus, you hate yourself a little more.
-talk to your friend on skype. Well, listen to him bitch about how he is echoing and say that he will hang out with you except you have to pay him.
-make plans to go to Wal-mart to buy mustache combs, silly string, super soakers, Preparation H, diapers, and Nascar t-shirts for the hell of it.
-make plans to watch Pippi Longstocking and do whiskey shots.
-remember that the last time you watched Pippi Longstocking you got high.
-put a picture of Aragorn as your desktop background.
And finally,
-blog about all of the shit you did and pretend like it was all a joke and know it wasn't.
So, my friend made a video for my bodyguard, a five second deal with her saying something that he says a lot. He told me on chat that he thought it was "adorable." Then, I read what he commented on the actual video. He said, "Hahaha that is also possibly the most adorable thing you've ever done." And, it made me want to puke and delete him from my contacts on chat and unfriend him. I imagine them going out and him using me to pursue her. Sounds a little like a PMS freakout, huh? Well, he did once tell her all about this dream where they were making love and in it he like took off her boots with his mouth or some such bullshit. Just a dream, right? Well, in 3rd grade I made up a dream about kissing a boy named Ethan, and then I told it to him so that he may think about it, and thus kiss me. Which, he did, seven times. But, it wasn't until after I convinced my friend to help me organize a game of spin the bottle that this occurred. I don't want to be the friend who gets roped into organizing a game of spin the bottle.
Tip of the Day: Taking up LARPing is an option in trying to find a prince charming, but you may have to take a foam axe to the face to get there.
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, March 29, 2010
Tater Tots as Drug Therapy, Letter Addiction, Wanted: Writing Utensil, Suspension, Psychic Abilities, Sandwich Culture, Blind Side=Soft Spot
Day 214
Not only is tomorrow tater tots for breakfast day, it is also my day to be workshopped in fiction class. Translation: Get to hear how effed up my story is from every one in the class, and if I am lucky someone will say something remotely nice, and I will put on a brave face and take notes, and hope that they don't talk about just one point for too long. There is one person in class who, more so than others, talks too long and too much at each workshop. This is the same person who sent me an email tonight to tell me that she did not receive my story. I groaned and hit reply on the email, and then stopped myself. Here is what I was thinking: "Wait a minute, if she doesn't read my story that means she cannot drone on and on about it in class--she can't say anything at all." Then I decided not to send it. I was so happy with my decision, especially considering that last week I nearly killed her for talking for 50 percent of the class time. I really felt like I got away with something...until 10 minutes ago. Yeah, that's right, she emailed to say that she found my story in a stack on her coffee table and not to worry, she will read it for tomorrow. I wonder exactly how many tater tots one has to eat to be in some sort of tater tot induced stupor, where you look like you are paying attention, but you are really just digesting things.
This morning I recalled that I had seen a "Help Wanted" sign in the window of a cafe nearby that I like to eat breakfast at. So, in an attempt to avoid homework and feel productive, I decided to look over my resume and whip up a cover letter. I sighed at the thought of having to write a cover letter, something that so many people despise. Then I remembered, "Wait, I'm a writer." I spent the next half hour writing a cover letter. It was amazing. It was the most succinct paragraph I have ever written. I am a cover letter wizard. I liked it so much that I wrote another one and applied for another job, and another job. I think I'm addicted. I wonder if getting a job will get in the way of my cover letter writing schedule.
When I finally realized that I wouldn't get any of my homework done sitting around thinking about cover letters, I went out to deliver the one I had written. On the way there I ended up in the middle of a relay race. After I got safely through it and back through it, I went to the library. While at the library I found my favorite carrel to study in, you know the one that is in the sub-sub basement and says "FUCK SHIT" on it. No, it wasn't me who came up with that, though whenever I see it, I wish I could claim it. Anyway, I settled in to critique a few stories from my peers. I pulled out my tiger folder, and my water bottle, and my gum, but when I reached in for a pen all I found was a stash of stolen condoms and Werther's Originals. I dug around some more to uncover a hair clip.
I hope that it is just irony that a writer can't find a pen, because if it's an omen I should be freaked. There were no pens anywhere, so I spent the next 20 minutes or so looping around the library searching carrels for pens that were left behind or some of those handy, but nasty to write with, golf pencils that surface in different floors of the library. I was unwilling to leave the sub-sub basement on this quest. Thus, the closest I came to finding a writing utensil of any kind was near the head of a girl who was sleeping on a bench. It was a small, unsharpened golf pencil. I reached over to get it, imagining ways I could sharpen it with my fingernails, and then it hit me: I am standing over a sleeping girl in a public place, and it looks like I am stealing her stuff, and there are people around who can see what I am doing, and really who can sharpen a pencil with their fingernails? I walked back to my L-spot, opened my tiger folder and started to read.
After I came home from my library adventure I opened my email to find a message from my manager at the pub. The email message came after a previous email stating that this was the new schedule for the next week, it's subject read, "Suspension Week." I was not on the schedule in that email, same with at least 5 other floor/bar workers, and all of the cooks except the head chef. Today's latest email noted that the bar's liquor license had been suspended, perhaps indefinitely, and therefore the schedule had reduced hours, as we would only be open when the kitchen is open. The email also noted that by some crazy statue in some "agreement" I had never agreed to, the people that were not on the suspension schedule were "laid off."
Immediately, I sent out an email for clarification, which has gone so far ignored. But, then I realized how crazy the timing on this was as I had spent the morning whipping up cover letters and applying for other jobs. And then I thought: fuck all that, I am obviously a psychic. All I need is to move into a spooky-looking house, buy a ton of candles, and hand-paint a sign for the front lawn.
Tonight at supper we had a sandwich bar. I had so much fun plucking up toppings and making a masterpiece. When I finished eating, I walked over to the next room and announced, "The American has arrived." The French Canadian in the room replied, "American right, I bet you really liked those sandwiches at supper then. Huh?" I laughed. Is this what foreigners think we Americans do all day? Sit around and eat sandwiches? Well, it's kinda true, just look at the latest Gaga video. Well it's true except that sometimes we get tired of sandwiches and eat 7 Layer Burritos or some KFC.
Every week the guy who used to live here that looks like a vampire, and who does what I tell him to do, and eats here on Sundays, shows a movie at the residence. Tonight he showed, The Blind Side. Since I am a Bullock hater I didn't want to see the movie, on principle. (I am just an ignorant fuck, what can I say). But, when I talked to my mother on the phone she demanded that I watch it to tell her whether or not she would like it. Usually she tells me to do my homework, but I guess her movie watching habits outweigh homework (understandable). I watched the movie and got all into it and emotional. I got the warm fuzzies afterward and loved how I will always love feel-good movies.
The movie was amazing, and made me want to have a little goofy-looking boy child that is too loud, and a Michael. The Michael character made me so happy to see that BFGs really do exist. There are big soft giants roaming around, that could scoop me up into their arms and hold me and make me feel loved and safe. This was all great except for the old saying, "Life is not like the movies." An, old tired cliche right? Yeah, but the thing about cliches is that they stick around because they are true. Well, I am off to cry now and dream of giants with giant hearts, who may never come around and make my life into a feel good movie. I better watch the "Numa Numa" video to cheer myself up first.
Tip of the Day: Crocheting a giant, ugly watermelon blanket is always going to take way more time than you had anticipated.
-Canadian Castaway
Not only is tomorrow tater tots for breakfast day, it is also my day to be workshopped in fiction class. Translation: Get to hear how effed up my story is from every one in the class, and if I am lucky someone will say something remotely nice, and I will put on a brave face and take notes, and hope that they don't talk about just one point for too long. There is one person in class who, more so than others, talks too long and too much at each workshop. This is the same person who sent me an email tonight to tell me that she did not receive my story. I groaned and hit reply on the email, and then stopped myself. Here is what I was thinking: "Wait a minute, if she doesn't read my story that means she cannot drone on and on about it in class--she can't say anything at all." Then I decided not to send it. I was so happy with my decision, especially considering that last week I nearly killed her for talking for 50 percent of the class time. I really felt like I got away with something...until 10 minutes ago. Yeah, that's right, she emailed to say that she found my story in a stack on her coffee table and not to worry, she will read it for tomorrow. I wonder exactly how many tater tots one has to eat to be in some sort of tater tot induced stupor, where you look like you are paying attention, but you are really just digesting things.
This morning I recalled that I had seen a "Help Wanted" sign in the window of a cafe nearby that I like to eat breakfast at. So, in an attempt to avoid homework and feel productive, I decided to look over my resume and whip up a cover letter. I sighed at the thought of having to write a cover letter, something that so many people despise. Then I remembered, "Wait, I'm a writer." I spent the next half hour writing a cover letter. It was amazing. It was the most succinct paragraph I have ever written. I am a cover letter wizard. I liked it so much that I wrote another one and applied for another job, and another job. I think I'm addicted. I wonder if getting a job will get in the way of my cover letter writing schedule.
When I finally realized that I wouldn't get any of my homework done sitting around thinking about cover letters, I went out to deliver the one I had written. On the way there I ended up in the middle of a relay race. After I got safely through it and back through it, I went to the library. While at the library I found my favorite carrel to study in, you know the one that is in the sub-sub basement and says "FUCK SHIT" on it. No, it wasn't me who came up with that, though whenever I see it, I wish I could claim it. Anyway, I settled in to critique a few stories from my peers. I pulled out my tiger folder, and my water bottle, and my gum, but when I reached in for a pen all I found was a stash of stolen condoms and Werther's Originals. I dug around some more to uncover a hair clip.
I hope that it is just irony that a writer can't find a pen, because if it's an omen I should be freaked. There were no pens anywhere, so I spent the next 20 minutes or so looping around the library searching carrels for pens that were left behind or some of those handy, but nasty to write with, golf pencils that surface in different floors of the library. I was unwilling to leave the sub-sub basement on this quest. Thus, the closest I came to finding a writing utensil of any kind was near the head of a girl who was sleeping on a bench. It was a small, unsharpened golf pencil. I reached over to get it, imagining ways I could sharpen it with my fingernails, and then it hit me: I am standing over a sleeping girl in a public place, and it looks like I am stealing her stuff, and there are people around who can see what I am doing, and really who can sharpen a pencil with their fingernails? I walked back to my L-spot, opened my tiger folder and started to read.
After I came home from my library adventure I opened my email to find a message from my manager at the pub. The email message came after a previous email stating that this was the new schedule for the next week, it's subject read, "Suspension Week." I was not on the schedule in that email, same with at least 5 other floor/bar workers, and all of the cooks except the head chef. Today's latest email noted that the bar's liquor license had been suspended, perhaps indefinitely, and therefore the schedule had reduced hours, as we would only be open when the kitchen is open. The email also noted that by some crazy statue in some "agreement" I had never agreed to, the people that were not on the suspension schedule were "laid off."
Immediately, I sent out an email for clarification, which has gone so far ignored. But, then I realized how crazy the timing on this was as I had spent the morning whipping up cover letters and applying for other jobs. And then I thought: fuck all that, I am obviously a psychic. All I need is to move into a spooky-looking house, buy a ton of candles, and hand-paint a sign for the front lawn.
Tonight at supper we had a sandwich bar. I had so much fun plucking up toppings and making a masterpiece. When I finished eating, I walked over to the next room and announced, "The American has arrived." The French Canadian in the room replied, "American right, I bet you really liked those sandwiches at supper then. Huh?" I laughed. Is this what foreigners think we Americans do all day? Sit around and eat sandwiches? Well, it's kinda true, just look at the latest Gaga video. Well it's true except that sometimes we get tired of sandwiches and eat 7 Layer Burritos or some KFC.
Every week the guy who used to live here that looks like a vampire, and who does what I tell him to do, and eats here on Sundays, shows a movie at the residence. Tonight he showed, The Blind Side. Since I am a Bullock hater I didn't want to see the movie, on principle. (I am just an ignorant fuck, what can I say). But, when I talked to my mother on the phone she demanded that I watch it to tell her whether or not she would like it. Usually she tells me to do my homework, but I guess her movie watching habits outweigh homework (understandable). I watched the movie and got all into it and emotional. I got the warm fuzzies afterward and loved how I will always love feel-good movies.
The movie was amazing, and made me want to have a little goofy-looking boy child that is too loud, and a Michael. The Michael character made me so happy to see that BFGs really do exist. There are big soft giants roaming around, that could scoop me up into their arms and hold me and make me feel loved and safe. This was all great except for the old saying, "Life is not like the movies." An, old tired cliche right? Yeah, but the thing about cliches is that they stick around because they are true. Well, I am off to cry now and dream of giants with giant hearts, who may never come around and make my life into a feel good movie. I better watch the "Numa Numa" video to cheer myself up first.
Tip of the Day: Crocheting a giant, ugly watermelon blanket is always going to take way more time than you had anticipated.
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, March 27, 2010
How to Tell if You Are Old, Video Consumption, The Virus is Coming, Narnia and Murder, Banana Cream Nasty, Dear Earth Hour, Bite me. Love, Emily
Day 213
Today I learned that even if you only have just a few drinks you can be massively hungover AND I learned that I am so behind the times with my youtube viral video watching. Honestly, I don't even know when a video has gone viral or what that entails. All I know is that I watched "The Coolest Guy in the World 2" and thought I was really onto something. I was so excited about this video that I popped up chat with my brother to tell him all about it. His reply was, "this was waaaay popular about 3 weeks ago god get with the now." And that was when I realized I am old.
I spent the rest of the morning watching videos from his top 99 best things on the internet list, thinking that I could be hip again. I saw a katana blade cut a guy during an infomercial. I saw a water buffalo fling a lion into the air. I saw a kid get kicked during a break dance show (flew just like the lion, weird). I saw the one with the kid who just got out of the dentist office. I saw the baby panda that looked like a stuffed toy sneeze. I saw a big lady fall from a coffee table, repeatedly. I saw a story about George Lucas falling in love and writing Star Wars. I saw a baby laugh (they say that is the noise that makes people the most happy, it's kinda true). But, my favorite was "Charlie bit my finger - again." I cannot get enough of those kids. I must've watched that video 12 times and every time laughed like a maniac. And yet, I don't feel in the loop. Must watch more videos to catch up. Still feel old.
So, today my friend came over to install more anti-virus software and check out the fact that I have multiple warnings on my computer. As in, viruses captured and held in some fake vault. I am not sure what any of this means. Later, hours after scans were run on my computer that said I was okay, he told me that he was concerned that I had had a virus. Apparently, he didn't tell me because he thought that I would freak out. I did anyway. But, I learned something very important, not only can I be a hypochondriac with things like the flu and mono (though I never think about that when I am making out with strangers), I can also be a hypochondriac about viruses my computer could get. I mean I have virus protection. What am I so worried about? Well, there was that one porn site I went on last week, at least I didn't get mono from it.
My friend and I decided to go on a long walk today. This is something that we were going to do three times a week, but have only done once in the past month. Today we were walking all around campus and we came upon an area of high rises whose streets dead-ended into parking garages. Okay so we didn't just come upon it, I insisted that we go into that yuppy area. After we saw all of the dead ends my friend wanted to go back the way we came that led to the main road. I decided that we would follow a mysterious path leading to a thicket. I said, "Let's go! This way to Narnia!"
My friend followed along and said, "Oh, I know where we are now." We were on the outskirts of some national park. Inside were trails that cut through the trees. There were two Vietnamese women with a stroller down one path and a crazed-looking old man in a poncho down another. We bypassed them and found our way back to the townhouse-type area with kids playing on the sidewalks. It was then that my friend suggested that we go on walks in the national park in the future, and then directly after that she told me of the murders that happened in that very park. What the hell? She was telling me how freaky the whole thing was and that she thought we should go in there anyhow. Is she someone who has OD'd on CSI, or is she a murderer? And, more importantly, why isn't she more concerned with finding Narnia?
Turns out if you have had a lazy ass day where you were mostly hungover for most of the waking hours eating a giant piece of banana cream pie doesn't help. What's worse is that afterward when you want to watch Pippi Longstocking and Jem and the Holograms you come to find out that the videostore only has them on VHS and you aren't cool enough to have a VHS player anymore. What's even worse is that your bodyguard keeps threatening to blind you. But, them when you say something about how you are going to call the cops on him he says, "You are the one threatening to kill me all the time, I am just threatening to blind you." And, then he tells you that he won't write you postcards when he is back in India this summer, and you almost make good on your threat.
So, I am supposed to be sitting in the dark for the next 9 minutes as the Earth Hour has that many minutes left. Yeah, apparently people think it's going to do some good to turn off all electrical appliances to raise awareness about energy usage. Maybe I am cynical. But, really? That's like saying everyone put a band-aid on your breast to raise awareness about breast cancer. That's great and all, but really nothing is going to change anything without throwing some money at research. Is it so wrong to think that actually doing something is better than just raising awareness? Instead of sitting in the dark why doesn't everyone throw five dollars toward research to develop low energy cost appliances? Maybe it would help more than turning off WOW for an hour. I'm just saying...
Tip of the Day: If you have no sound on youtube check to see if the control was bumped to mute. Don't panic. As much as it may seem like it sometimes this is NOT a life or death situation.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I learned that even if you only have just a few drinks you can be massively hungover AND I learned that I am so behind the times with my youtube viral video watching. Honestly, I don't even know when a video has gone viral or what that entails. All I know is that I watched "The Coolest Guy in the World 2" and thought I was really onto something. I was so excited about this video that I popped up chat with my brother to tell him all about it. His reply was, "this was waaaay popular about 3 weeks ago god get with the now." And that was when I realized I am old.
I spent the rest of the morning watching videos from his top 99 best things on the internet list, thinking that I could be hip again. I saw a katana blade cut a guy during an infomercial. I saw a water buffalo fling a lion into the air. I saw a kid get kicked during a break dance show (flew just like the lion, weird). I saw the one with the kid who just got out of the dentist office. I saw the baby panda that looked like a stuffed toy sneeze. I saw a big lady fall from a coffee table, repeatedly. I saw a story about George Lucas falling in love and writing Star Wars. I saw a baby laugh (they say that is the noise that makes people the most happy, it's kinda true). But, my favorite was "Charlie bit my finger - again." I cannot get enough of those kids. I must've watched that video 12 times and every time laughed like a maniac. And yet, I don't feel in the loop. Must watch more videos to catch up. Still feel old.
So, today my friend came over to install more anti-virus software and check out the fact that I have multiple warnings on my computer. As in, viruses captured and held in some fake vault. I am not sure what any of this means. Later, hours after scans were run on my computer that said I was okay, he told me that he was concerned that I had had a virus. Apparently, he didn't tell me because he thought that I would freak out. I did anyway. But, I learned something very important, not only can I be a hypochondriac with things like the flu and mono (though I never think about that when I am making out with strangers), I can also be a hypochondriac about viruses my computer could get. I mean I have virus protection. What am I so worried about? Well, there was that one porn site I went on last week, at least I didn't get mono from it.
My friend and I decided to go on a long walk today. This is something that we were going to do three times a week, but have only done once in the past month. Today we were walking all around campus and we came upon an area of high rises whose streets dead-ended into parking garages. Okay so we didn't just come upon it, I insisted that we go into that yuppy area. After we saw all of the dead ends my friend wanted to go back the way we came that led to the main road. I decided that we would follow a mysterious path leading to a thicket. I said, "Let's go! This way to Narnia!"
My friend followed along and said, "Oh, I know where we are now." We were on the outskirts of some national park. Inside were trails that cut through the trees. There were two Vietnamese women with a stroller down one path and a crazed-looking old man in a poncho down another. We bypassed them and found our way back to the townhouse-type area with kids playing on the sidewalks. It was then that my friend suggested that we go on walks in the national park in the future, and then directly after that she told me of the murders that happened in that very park. What the hell? She was telling me how freaky the whole thing was and that she thought we should go in there anyhow. Is she someone who has OD'd on CSI, or is she a murderer? And, more importantly, why isn't she more concerned with finding Narnia?
Turns out if you have had a lazy ass day where you were mostly hungover for most of the waking hours eating a giant piece of banana cream pie doesn't help. What's worse is that afterward when you want to watch Pippi Longstocking and Jem and the Holograms you come to find out that the videostore only has them on VHS and you aren't cool enough to have a VHS player anymore. What's even worse is that your bodyguard keeps threatening to blind you. But, them when you say something about how you are going to call the cops on him he says, "You are the one threatening to kill me all the time, I am just threatening to blind you." And, then he tells you that he won't write you postcards when he is back in India this summer, and you almost make good on your threat.
So, I am supposed to be sitting in the dark for the next 9 minutes as the Earth Hour has that many minutes left. Yeah, apparently people think it's going to do some good to turn off all electrical appliances to raise awareness about energy usage. Maybe I am cynical. But, really? That's like saying everyone put a band-aid on your breast to raise awareness about breast cancer. That's great and all, but really nothing is going to change anything without throwing some money at research. Is it so wrong to think that actually doing something is better than just raising awareness? Instead of sitting in the dark why doesn't everyone throw five dollars toward research to develop low energy cost appliances? Maybe it would help more than turning off WOW for an hour. I'm just saying...
Tip of the Day: If you have no sound on youtube check to see if the control was bumped to mute. Don't panic. As much as it may seem like it sometimes this is NOT a life or death situation.
-Canadian Castaway
Opening Shift, Freaky Furnished Apartment, Church Readings
Day 212
It is now 2:42 am and I have just wolfed at least two servings of salami. This may be brief. Here we go:
I went to work today to find that the girl I was working with turns out to be a total bitch. Well, for about 2 1/2 hours and then she apologized suspiciously too much. The bagel sandwich I ordered didn't have cream cheese on it (that is why you order them, duh). I questioned my boss about whether or not scheduling me on April Fool's Day was a joke or not and she told me it wasn't. I had to wipe down salt shakers in a feeble attempt to look busy. I nearly cried 3 times. I wrote the special on the board incorrectly twice. The cook called me a crybaby. The other cook probably sneezed on my shitty bagel sandwich. But, after all of that, a guy with an Australian accent came in and called me "love" and wanted to know who I was and tell me that he skipped 3 classes today, and he was excited to try my special cranberry lime spritzer, and all of the bitch/no creamcheese-type things were worth it.
This afternoon I went to my friend's apartment for the first time. He lives in the backyard guest suite of some swanky house who inhabitants include some sort of positive energy guru type guy and his freaky family. The apartment came furnished with a fluffy white couch, a huge plant (which is now dead), and two giant Budda sculptures. I wandered through the house and came upon an opaque-colored glass door leading outside I inquired about where it exactly it led and my friend told me that it led to the home owner's backyard. We peeked out and he said, "I'm not supposed to go out there." I don't know what's creepier, the giant Budda sculptures or that he cannot go in his backyard.
Tonight I had to go to another reading. Translation: Creative writers gathering some place to read poems and short stories and essays, endlessly. While I was sitting at the reading, I fished out a Valentine with a find-all-the-marbles-in-this-scene type of cereal box crap on it and gave it to my friend who was sitting next to me. She was antsy as all hell and finding the marbles soothed her. On my other side my guy friend was leaned back and had his arm across the back of my chair. I realized at that moment that these readings are exactly like going to Lutheran church. I was sitting with my little family. I was the mother, my friend on one side my child, and on the other was the father figure. I laughed to myself at the comparison, seriously, the only thing missing were the hymns.
The only major contrast (besides lack of singing) between sitting through readings and going to a Lutheran church service is that at the church service there is super weak coffee and potluck food afterward. This is where my parents had told me to eat every Sunday, as this was supposed to be my lunch for the day. What I was never supposed to bring up was the fact that my own family never contributed to the potluck, only took. After the reading there is always a meet up at a nearby bar. Much booze is purchased and consumed. All in all, I'd rather the readings have the potlucks and the church services the beer.
Tip of the Day: When you see someone attractive shout out, "Hot, hot hot!"
-Canadian Castaway
It is now 2:42 am and I have just wolfed at least two servings of salami. This may be brief. Here we go:
I went to work today to find that the girl I was working with turns out to be a total bitch. Well, for about 2 1/2 hours and then she apologized suspiciously too much. The bagel sandwich I ordered didn't have cream cheese on it (that is why you order them, duh). I questioned my boss about whether or not scheduling me on April Fool's Day was a joke or not and she told me it wasn't. I had to wipe down salt shakers in a feeble attempt to look busy. I nearly cried 3 times. I wrote the special on the board incorrectly twice. The cook called me a crybaby. The other cook probably sneezed on my shitty bagel sandwich. But, after all of that, a guy with an Australian accent came in and called me "love" and wanted to know who I was and tell me that he skipped 3 classes today, and he was excited to try my special cranberry lime spritzer, and all of the bitch/no creamcheese-type things were worth it.
This afternoon I went to my friend's apartment for the first time. He lives in the backyard guest suite of some swanky house who inhabitants include some sort of positive energy guru type guy and his freaky family. The apartment came furnished with a fluffy white couch, a huge plant (which is now dead), and two giant Budda sculptures. I wandered through the house and came upon an opaque-colored glass door leading outside I inquired about where it exactly it led and my friend told me that it led to the home owner's backyard. We peeked out and he said, "I'm not supposed to go out there." I don't know what's creepier, the giant Budda sculptures or that he cannot go in his backyard.
Tonight I had to go to another reading. Translation: Creative writers gathering some place to read poems and short stories and essays, endlessly. While I was sitting at the reading, I fished out a Valentine with a find-all-the-marbles-in-this-scene type of cereal box crap on it and gave it to my friend who was sitting next to me. She was antsy as all hell and finding the marbles soothed her. On my other side my guy friend was leaned back and had his arm across the back of my chair. I realized at that moment that these readings are exactly like going to Lutheran church. I was sitting with my little family. I was the mother, my friend on one side my child, and on the other was the father figure. I laughed to myself at the comparison, seriously, the only thing missing were the hymns.
The only major contrast (besides lack of singing) between sitting through readings and going to a Lutheran church service is that at the church service there is super weak coffee and potluck food afterward. This is where my parents had told me to eat every Sunday, as this was supposed to be my lunch for the day. What I was never supposed to bring up was the fact that my own family never contributed to the potluck, only took. After the reading there is always a meet up at a nearby bar. Much booze is purchased and consumed. All in all, I'd rather the readings have the potlucks and the church services the beer.
Tip of the Day: When you see someone attractive shout out, "Hot, hot hot!"
-Canadian Castaway
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Care Package, Forgotten Birthday, Bitchy Men, Striking Poses Not Striking Enough
Day 211
Most of the day was spent writing a script rewrite that was due today, but stared quite late. If you guessed that I started it yesterday I owe you a golden goose. Anyway, the only break from scene cards was a trip to the mailbox. In my mailbox was a tiny scrap of paper that said I had received a parcel. I went to the office to retrieve it. It was a care package from my mother in it were the following:
8 Cadbury Cream Eggs
1 bag of Wintergreen mints
1 box of processed fake cheese
3 tubes of mascara
2 bags of Werther's Original
1 tub of pink cotton candy
4 sticks of deodorant
1 family-size pack of Q-tips
2 1-pound bags of coffee
3 skeins of hot pink yarn
2 skeins of dark green yarn (apparently, those are supposed to go together)
4 pillowcases
2 boxes of Band-Aids
1 gigantic sausage
1 Gladware tub filled with as many fortune cookies as $1 will buy you at Wong's
And an envelope filled with the following:
-a picture of a very old man I don't know sitting in a room filled with junk
-an opened bank statement
-a printout of a pill that has "Fuckitol" written on it
-1 picture of my parents' dog
-8 pictures that she took of where I now live
-a newspaper story about a high school classmate that she made me read when I was home for Christmas
-a section of the paper in which kids wrote in poems for Martin Luther King Jr.
-and, 2 sections of the paper that are filled with photos of babies, not because my mom thinks that they are cute but because every year she looks at this "Babies Born This Year" feature and laughs at the ugly ones.
The above is all you need to know about my mother. Except, that is was her birthday today and I forgot about it, until she told me about it. I asked her what she was going to do for her birthday and she said, "drink a big margarita."
At supper tonight I was standing in line with my pseudo-date from the other night. As he went on and on about how he didn't do so well on a recent test, and sometime after I kept thinking about things much more life or death, I realized something: I am flypaper for bitchy men. Seriously, why is it me that they come to when they have some diva-esque problem with their friend who isn't a friend that they could just ignore. Do I look like I care? What the hell is it about me that draws guys to me and makes them kvetch about ridiculous things that they will probably forget about tomorrow? Is it my hairstyle? I can change it. My eyes? I can wear sunglasses. Is it my smell? I can change perfume. I haven't date all that much in the last couple years so I had to ask my friend, "Does the man always just sit there and bitch about petty bullshit and not listen to you?" She said, "Not when I go out on dates. I am the one bitching on and on and he's the one listening to every word and remembering it." So it must be my smell. Shit, I like this perfume.
Tonight I went to a George Bernard Shaw play and it was hilarious. Who knew that staunchy Bulgarian people could have such funny body language. They were always striking poses and making declarations. I don't know if Shaw intended this, but I am taking his teachings to heart. After the play my "date" and I went out for a coke and a snack. The entire time we were there I was striking poses. Well, except for when we hid out from a couple people in my building. When we paid the check the people from my building were also at the register paying my check, and the old creeper man noticed my poses and lovely hair, and commented about how lovely I look. Too bad the giant in the kitchen didn't notice. Maybe I need to pose closer to the kitchen. Or, I just need to fall for creepy old men.
Tip of the Day: Cotton Candy from a plastic tub is better than the real thing.
-Canadian Castaway
Most of the day was spent writing a script rewrite that was due today, but stared quite late. If you guessed that I started it yesterday I owe you a golden goose. Anyway, the only break from scene cards was a trip to the mailbox. In my mailbox was a tiny scrap of paper that said I had received a parcel. I went to the office to retrieve it. It was a care package from my mother in it were the following:
8 Cadbury Cream Eggs
1 bag of Wintergreen mints
1 box of processed fake cheese
3 tubes of mascara
2 bags of Werther's Original
1 tub of pink cotton candy
4 sticks of deodorant
1 family-size pack of Q-tips
2 1-pound bags of coffee
3 skeins of hot pink yarn
2 skeins of dark green yarn (apparently, those are supposed to go together)
4 pillowcases
2 boxes of Band-Aids
1 gigantic sausage
1 Gladware tub filled with as many fortune cookies as $1 will buy you at Wong's
And an envelope filled with the following:
-a picture of a very old man I don't know sitting in a room filled with junk
-an opened bank statement
-a printout of a pill that has "Fuckitol" written on it
-1 picture of my parents' dog
-8 pictures that she took of where I now live
-a newspaper story about a high school classmate that she made me read when I was home for Christmas
-a section of the paper in which kids wrote in poems for Martin Luther King Jr.
-and, 2 sections of the paper that are filled with photos of babies, not because my mom thinks that they are cute but because every year she looks at this "Babies Born This Year" feature and laughs at the ugly ones.
The above is all you need to know about my mother. Except, that is was her birthday today and I forgot about it, until she told me about it. I asked her what she was going to do for her birthday and she said, "drink a big margarita."
At supper tonight I was standing in line with my pseudo-date from the other night. As he went on and on about how he didn't do so well on a recent test, and sometime after I kept thinking about things much more life or death, I realized something: I am flypaper for bitchy men. Seriously, why is it me that they come to when they have some diva-esque problem with their friend who isn't a friend that they could just ignore. Do I look like I care? What the hell is it about me that draws guys to me and makes them kvetch about ridiculous things that they will probably forget about tomorrow? Is it my hairstyle? I can change it. My eyes? I can wear sunglasses. Is it my smell? I can change perfume. I haven't date all that much in the last couple years so I had to ask my friend, "Does the man always just sit there and bitch about petty bullshit and not listen to you?" She said, "Not when I go out on dates. I am the one bitching on and on and he's the one listening to every word and remembering it." So it must be my smell. Shit, I like this perfume.
Tonight I went to a George Bernard Shaw play and it was hilarious. Who knew that staunchy Bulgarian people could have such funny body language. They were always striking poses and making declarations. I don't know if Shaw intended this, but I am taking his teachings to heart. After the play my "date" and I went out for a coke and a snack. The entire time we were there I was striking poses. Well, except for when we hid out from a couple people in my building. When we paid the check the people from my building were also at the register paying my check, and the old creeper man noticed my poses and lovely hair, and commented about how lovely I look. Too bad the giant in the kitchen didn't notice. Maybe I need to pose closer to the kitchen. Or, I just need to fall for creepy old men.
Tip of the Day: Cotton Candy from a plastic tub is better than the real thing.
-Canadian Castaway
Gimme Coffee, Distracted, American-ness, Butt-Sniffing Whore's Butt Figurine, Nailpolish, I Suck at Video Chat or Life?
Day 210
This morning I watched one of the most prestigious writers/teachers in my program sweet talk the coffee machine. While he was wiping it down with a cloth and running a cleaning cycle he was whispering sweet nothings, "You are beautiful and so clean." A normal person may have found this cute or disturbing. But, I am part of the Special People's Club (thank you Welcome to the Dollhouse). I pretty much just whined about how I didn't have any coffee for the 20 minutes it took to do the cleaning. The odd thing is though, I think this prof likes me anyhow. Wonder what I'd so if he told me I was "beautiful and so clean" well, depends on whether or not I already had my coffee.
Today me and my friend went to this cafe in a great neighborhood to study. Definition of a great neighborhood: Where you can go people watching and see some Native guy walking around selling fake gold Virgin Mary figurines on the street. While we went there to study, I got a little distracted. First, there was a kid. One who wouldn't smile at my funny faces, but only at my regular face. Then, there was the kinda of cute guy who had a Canadian flag sticker on his MacBook, and who I was convinced I was going to marry. Then, there was the long-haired woman who looked exactly like a hippie, down to her bell bottom jeans and her leather, fringed handbag. She sort of slipped, and caught herself and couldn't quit yelling, "You've got a spill here." Then there was the guy who was covered in tattoos and was so sexy smoking cigarettes, if only he didn't have giant ridiculous earrings. These are just a couple of the distractions.
The biggest distraction was when my friend asked if they had wireless at this particular cafe and was met with the response, "No," the cafe worker gestured around the mostly empty cafe and said seriously, "We already have tons of business, we don't need people sitting in here all day studying with their laptops. We need to move people in and out." My friend (a Canadian) who was trying to get on internet agreed with the woman's statement in some way, whereas me, (American) thought, "Are you fuckin' nuts?! More business is a good thing. Jesus!"Later we walked up the street in search of a cafe with wireless for my friend to send some emails in. We came upon one, and it was all hustle and beverage slinging. I still couldn't see as a business owner how I would be against this kind of racket, possibly this is further proof I will never really be Canadian.
My favorite part of the hang out though, was the walk back to the car. We passed a storefront full of Dia De Los Muertos stuff in the window. My eyes stopped on a figurine that contained a dog sniffing the ass of a whore with a skeleton face. Immediately, I thought, that would be perfect for my friend. We went inside to find someones adorable Spanish grandmother working the register. I felt ashamed asking the price. But, I did so anyhow. "$15 dollars," she said. I thought, 'Geez, that's a lot to pay for a tiny butt-sniffing dog and whore statue.'
So, today I was to co-teach high school kids. I was super excited as the blue nailpolish I put on last night was sure to be a hit with them. I waited the whole time we were teaching (translation: talking nonsense and sometimes nonsense about writing) to see if they would say anything. The only person who even noticed was the old English teacher who supervises us. He said, "Did you try to get your nailpolish to match your dinosaur pen?" Then he looked at my hands and said, "Nah, that blue is different it doesn't match." I was heartbroken. Apparently, calculating into Fahrenheit the temperature one's body would have to be at to be too hot to live anymore was more exciting.
You know your life is boring when you skype with your friend who has never skype-ed before and you don't have anything all that exciting to say so you take your roaring, light-up dinosaur pen and put it in front of the camera. Good thing your friend is so obsessed with dinosaurs. Actually, she was wearing a neck cozie she made from a dinosaur printed cloth. Although, her boyfriend taking the wrapper off a chocolate bunny was pretty exciting, the dinosaur still wins, because chocolate bunnies don't light up and roar. Duh.
Tip of the Day: Don't send out a bitchy email to your whole class about how irresponsible they are for turning in their work late, unless you are absolutely sure you will never, ever have to turn in your own work late.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I watched one of the most prestigious writers/teachers in my program sweet talk the coffee machine. While he was wiping it down with a cloth and running a cleaning cycle he was whispering sweet nothings, "You are beautiful and so clean." A normal person may have found this cute or disturbing. But, I am part of the Special People's Club (thank you Welcome to the Dollhouse). I pretty much just whined about how I didn't have any coffee for the 20 minutes it took to do the cleaning. The odd thing is though, I think this prof likes me anyhow. Wonder what I'd so if he told me I was "beautiful and so clean" well, depends on whether or not I already had my coffee.
Today me and my friend went to this cafe in a great neighborhood to study. Definition of a great neighborhood: Where you can go people watching and see some Native guy walking around selling fake gold Virgin Mary figurines on the street. While we went there to study, I got a little distracted. First, there was a kid. One who wouldn't smile at my funny faces, but only at my regular face. Then, there was the kinda of cute guy who had a Canadian flag sticker on his MacBook, and who I was convinced I was going to marry. Then, there was the long-haired woman who looked exactly like a hippie, down to her bell bottom jeans and her leather, fringed handbag. She sort of slipped, and caught herself and couldn't quit yelling, "You've got a spill here." Then there was the guy who was covered in tattoos and was so sexy smoking cigarettes, if only he didn't have giant ridiculous earrings. These are just a couple of the distractions.
The biggest distraction was when my friend asked if they had wireless at this particular cafe and was met with the response, "No," the cafe worker gestured around the mostly empty cafe and said seriously, "We already have tons of business, we don't need people sitting in here all day studying with their laptops. We need to move people in and out." My friend (a Canadian) who was trying to get on internet agreed with the woman's statement in some way, whereas me, (American) thought, "Are you fuckin' nuts?! More business is a good thing. Jesus!"Later we walked up the street in search of a cafe with wireless for my friend to send some emails in. We came upon one, and it was all hustle and beverage slinging. I still couldn't see as a business owner how I would be against this kind of racket, possibly this is further proof I will never really be Canadian.
My favorite part of the hang out though, was the walk back to the car. We passed a storefront full of Dia De Los Muertos stuff in the window. My eyes stopped on a figurine that contained a dog sniffing the ass of a whore with a skeleton face. Immediately, I thought, that would be perfect for my friend. We went inside to find someones adorable Spanish grandmother working the register. I felt ashamed asking the price. But, I did so anyhow. "$15 dollars," she said. I thought, 'Geez, that's a lot to pay for a tiny butt-sniffing dog and whore statue.'
So, today I was to co-teach high school kids. I was super excited as the blue nailpolish I put on last night was sure to be a hit with them. I waited the whole time we were teaching (translation: talking nonsense and sometimes nonsense about writing) to see if they would say anything. The only person who even noticed was the old English teacher who supervises us. He said, "Did you try to get your nailpolish to match your dinosaur pen?" Then he looked at my hands and said, "Nah, that blue is different it doesn't match." I was heartbroken. Apparently, calculating into Fahrenheit the temperature one's body would have to be at to be too hot to live anymore was more exciting.
You know your life is boring when you skype with your friend who has never skype-ed before and you don't have anything all that exciting to say so you take your roaring, light-up dinosaur pen and put it in front of the camera. Good thing your friend is so obsessed with dinosaurs. Actually, she was wearing a neck cozie she made from a dinosaur printed cloth. Although, her boyfriend taking the wrapper off a chocolate bunny was pretty exciting, the dinosaur still wins, because chocolate bunnies don't light up and roar. Duh.
Tip of the Day: Don't send out a bitchy email to your whole class about how irresponsible they are for turning in their work late, unless you are absolutely sure you will never, ever have to turn in your own work late.
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Canadian Work Permitting, Ninja Invader, Workshop Queen, Off the Bone, Mr. Smiles, Toilet Paper Reality, Old Boyfriend
Day 209
So if you want a job in Canada you need to get a work permit, and if that isn't enough you need to register for what is called an "epass" and then, you have to log in using a username and password. All of that is quite fine until you realize that if you log out you will need to remember the username and password. Don't remember? Well, you can just set up a new "epass" account. Ahh, ahh, you can set up a new account. You can make a new username and password and questions to answer should you forget either of these things. But, when you log in the computer will indicate that you already have an account. The only problem now is, it is impossible to find those orignial find-my-information security questions again. I know who a memorable person is to me, and who my first love was, I can remember that stuff. Ask me! Oh Canada, you are so confusing, or I am so deluded I do not know how to operate a simple website (let's go with option 1). In either case, I am do not know if you should trust me working in your country.
When I was applying eyeliner the unthinkable happened. I heard in the other room a clanking of my spoon and bowl that lie on my desk. I whipped out of the bathroom to see I had been invaded. I let fly a scream of terror. The bandit ran out the window, in a flurry of bushy tail. After I calmed down and regretted not shooting the squirrels, I realized a two things.
1. No one had come to my rescue. I let out one horrifying scream, and shortly after one more subtle scream (just for fun) and no one came running to knock down my door and protect me from my attacker. Fuckers. Should I treat this like Christmas cards? Like, if you get a Christmas card from someone you send them one, but if you do not get a card from someone you do not send one to them. Go ahead neighbor, scream.
2. There was no oatmeal left in the bowl the little squirrel bastard was into. I had eaten it all. I felt like I'd won the battle. Until I realized later that I was still drinking from the glass of Tang that was on my desk during the attack. I am not sure how long he had been on my desk before he clanked the spoon and I had found him (yeah, I am assuming it is a boy squirrel "he"). Immediately, I told my friend on chat that I was drinking Tang that could've been contaminated by a squirrel. My friend wrote back, "I bet he just put his furry ass in it." Time for new friends and new Tang.
My story was workshopped today in class. Translation: that bitchy commentary I wrote about parents and children was hashed out by my classmates. Anyway, after a half an hour of pretty much praise, my friend read aloud my line, "Worst case scenario you'll have two teenagers fucking on your couch." I didn't realize that sounded so dirty. Well, the next line, "You gotta admit that's kinda hot," is a little freakier. Shit. Anyway, the entire class normally talks and like two people hate on you, and then the teacher sums it up. This teacher, who ate a whole bunch of my soynuts without asking (which I found hilarious, and made me feel like the teacher's pet, though I am VERY naughty), handed me back my paper and said. "Well, I guess you scored with that one." Normally, this would be a huge compliment. But, when he said it like he was quite surprised I did so well. It's kind of like when the naughty kid cheats on his test and the teacher can't prove it, but he really did study. But, the whole day wasn't ruined, the super good news is that my friend brought me a dinosaur pen, whose mouth opens up and it screams. So, I just played with that the whole time.
Okay, so I know I am all about eating meat since returning to the joy of it after a 7 year imprisonment in a vegetarian camp, but eating meat off the bone, really? I felt like my dinosaur. Then when I turned to my neighbor at the table who was gnawing carcass off the bone he said, "It sharpens your teeth." What?! I don't need sharp teeth. I am not a velociraptor. Can't I get a nice chicken strip or piece of sausage? Seriously, we have come such a long way in this society. Do we really need to get all caveman and suck a bone dry and be proud of our stack of bones?
After supper and a mild facebook chat fight, I headed out to the library. I was ready to set up camp in my secret working area. Well, it's not that secret, I wrote my name on the carrel. On the walk over I had the sinking feeling that someone may be occupying my secret (out in the open) space. When I went to the sub-sub basement, I found that it was available, and for the first time I had neighbors. This was fine. The guy with the nylon sock thing wrapped around his bun seemed to be super engaged in his work, though he did look at me when I walked in. But, the real threat was the guy who was standing and smiling to himself. He sat down and smiled, and read papers and smiled, and got up and paced around and smiled. It was too much to bear, especially when I was trying to write a TV character that I know nothing about. I didn't need to look over in my struggle and see his smug smile. Motherfucker.
I had to leave and seek therapy in the form of meandering the aisles of a drugstore, looking at make-up, but buying toilet paper, coffee, and a candle. I felt much better, even when I was waiting in line to check out. I felt great up until the point where the cashier looked at my giant square package of toilet paper and said, "We don't have any bags left for that." So, it was just me and a giant toilet paper package walking down the street hoping that I wouldn't meet my real life version of Aragorn, and have him think about the fact that I wipe my ass. Luckily, a real life Aragorn doesn't exist (or is it lucky). The only person I saw was a co-worker from the bar whiz by me on a bike while I was amongst other people. He turned his head and yelled a drunken overly loud, "Hey!" The crowd looked at me and my toilet paper. As I was almost home, a group of boys was standing on the sidewalk and one of them flicked his cigarette butt at my feet. Is this how an ass wiper gets treated in the street? Next time I am taking a taxi, if I want to continue to wipe my ass.
Are you depressed if you spend half an hour on facebook looking at the only boy you've ever loved's profile? Or, are you just bored and contenting yourself with the image of him getting fat as he gets older, just like you seem to be. Well, when you notice that he is dating a young girl who is skinny you get angry, so I guess that's better than being depressed, sort of. Although screw all that, I am going to just call it curious.
Tip of the Day: When you don't know what to do with yourself buy a 10 dollar candle that reminds you of your friend, even though you don't really like how it smells.
-Canadian Castaway
So if you want a job in Canada you need to get a work permit, and if that isn't enough you need to register for what is called an "epass" and then, you have to log in using a username and password. All of that is quite fine until you realize that if you log out you will need to remember the username and password. Don't remember? Well, you can just set up a new "epass" account. Ahh, ahh, you can set up a new account. You can make a new username and password and questions to answer should you forget either of these things. But, when you log in the computer will indicate that you already have an account. The only problem now is, it is impossible to find those orignial find-my-information security questions again. I know who a memorable person is to me, and who my first love was, I can remember that stuff. Ask me! Oh Canada, you are so confusing, or I am so deluded I do not know how to operate a simple website (let's go with option 1). In either case, I am do not know if you should trust me working in your country.
When I was applying eyeliner the unthinkable happened. I heard in the other room a clanking of my spoon and bowl that lie on my desk. I whipped out of the bathroom to see I had been invaded. I let fly a scream of terror. The bandit ran out the window, in a flurry of bushy tail. After I calmed down and regretted not shooting the squirrels, I realized a two things.
1. No one had come to my rescue. I let out one horrifying scream, and shortly after one more subtle scream (just for fun) and no one came running to knock down my door and protect me from my attacker. Fuckers. Should I treat this like Christmas cards? Like, if you get a Christmas card from someone you send them one, but if you do not get a card from someone you do not send one to them. Go ahead neighbor, scream.
2. There was no oatmeal left in the bowl the little squirrel bastard was into. I had eaten it all. I felt like I'd won the battle. Until I realized later that I was still drinking from the glass of Tang that was on my desk during the attack. I am not sure how long he had been on my desk before he clanked the spoon and I had found him (yeah, I am assuming it is a boy squirrel "he"). Immediately, I told my friend on chat that I was drinking Tang that could've been contaminated by a squirrel. My friend wrote back, "I bet he just put his furry ass in it." Time for new friends and new Tang.
My story was workshopped today in class. Translation: that bitchy commentary I wrote about parents and children was hashed out by my classmates. Anyway, after a half an hour of pretty much praise, my friend read aloud my line, "Worst case scenario you'll have two teenagers fucking on your couch." I didn't realize that sounded so dirty. Well, the next line, "You gotta admit that's kinda hot," is a little freakier. Shit. Anyway, the entire class normally talks and like two people hate on you, and then the teacher sums it up. This teacher, who ate a whole bunch of my soynuts without asking (which I found hilarious, and made me feel like the teacher's pet, though I am VERY naughty), handed me back my paper and said. "Well, I guess you scored with that one." Normally, this would be a huge compliment. But, when he said it like he was quite surprised I did so well. It's kind of like when the naughty kid cheats on his test and the teacher can't prove it, but he really did study. But, the whole day wasn't ruined, the super good news is that my friend brought me a dinosaur pen, whose mouth opens up and it screams. So, I just played with that the whole time.
Okay, so I know I am all about eating meat since returning to the joy of it after a 7 year imprisonment in a vegetarian camp, but eating meat off the bone, really? I felt like my dinosaur. Then when I turned to my neighbor at the table who was gnawing carcass off the bone he said, "It sharpens your teeth." What?! I don't need sharp teeth. I am not a velociraptor. Can't I get a nice chicken strip or piece of sausage? Seriously, we have come such a long way in this society. Do we really need to get all caveman and suck a bone dry and be proud of our stack of bones?
After supper and a mild facebook chat fight, I headed out to the library. I was ready to set up camp in my secret working area. Well, it's not that secret, I wrote my name on the carrel. On the walk over I had the sinking feeling that someone may be occupying my secret (out in the open) space. When I went to the sub-sub basement, I found that it was available, and for the first time I had neighbors. This was fine. The guy with the nylon sock thing wrapped around his bun seemed to be super engaged in his work, though he did look at me when I walked in. But, the real threat was the guy who was standing and smiling to himself. He sat down and smiled, and read papers and smiled, and got up and paced around and smiled. It was too much to bear, especially when I was trying to write a TV character that I know nothing about. I didn't need to look over in my struggle and see his smug smile. Motherfucker.
I had to leave and seek therapy in the form of meandering the aisles of a drugstore, looking at make-up, but buying toilet paper, coffee, and a candle. I felt much better, even when I was waiting in line to check out. I felt great up until the point where the cashier looked at my giant square package of toilet paper and said, "We don't have any bags left for that." So, it was just me and a giant toilet paper package walking down the street hoping that I wouldn't meet my real life version of Aragorn, and have him think about the fact that I wipe my ass. Luckily, a real life Aragorn doesn't exist (or is it lucky). The only person I saw was a co-worker from the bar whiz by me on a bike while I was amongst other people. He turned his head and yelled a drunken overly loud, "Hey!" The crowd looked at me and my toilet paper. As I was almost home, a group of boys was standing on the sidewalk and one of them flicked his cigarette butt at my feet. Is this how an ass wiper gets treated in the street? Next time I am taking a taxi, if I want to continue to wipe my ass.
Are you depressed if you spend half an hour on facebook looking at the only boy you've ever loved's profile? Or, are you just bored and contenting yourself with the image of him getting fat as he gets older, just like you seem to be. Well, when you notice that he is dating a young girl who is skinny you get angry, so I guess that's better than being depressed, sort of. Although screw all that, I am going to just call it curious.
Tip of the Day: When you don't know what to do with yourself buy a 10 dollar candle that reminds you of your friend, even though you don't really like how it smells.
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Morning, Skype Not Fun, Twilight Not-so-Hottie, Money, Anger Crackin', Fanny, Reading That Didn't Suck
Day 208
Today I saw the dawn. Well, I saw my version of it. I saw 8:10 am. It was not all that great. The tater tots at breakfast were cold and hard, in a bad way. The horoscope for Scorpio basically said that I am a loser who no one wants to listen to, funny it always says something like that. And now, I just want to go to sleep and wake up at 10:30 am tomorrow. Then I want to plot the ways that I will spend the rest of my life avoiding 8:10 am.
So, it's getting super effing late again so I'll just do a quick recap of today's events:
Skype-ing is fun. It is even funny, like when your friend figures out an app that came with her computer that can make her have a birthday cake or a sharks mouth for a crown on her head. At least it's funny until you realize that she is paying more attention to the fake bubbles blowing past her face on the screen than to you.
I don't care what anyone says that boy from Twilight will never be hot to me. Looking at him even trying to imagine he is hot makes me feel like I am in love with a 15 year old. The 11 year age difference thing is fine (I should know), but when the boy in question is still in high school I have to draw the line. But, that doesn't mean that I don't think Patrick Dempsey was hot in Can't Buy Me Love. Somehow it's more acceptable. For example if he was 15 in that movie he can still be hot to me because I now know that he is no longer 15. There should be some sort of incorrect logic with that thought, but I don't really care. Sometimes you just have to declare yourself right.
So, last night in preparation for me seeing the dawn I packed my bag and laid out my clothes. I was so ready for the day that I made it, dressed, make up-ed, and bag at the ready to breakfast by 8:30. My early day was turning out wonderfully, except that when I got to the copy shop I didn't have any money. I actually had to go to an ATM to get 20 bucks, get change, insert my card, put money on my card, and restart the copy machine and reinsert my copy card to make the final 5 copies I needed for class. I was amazed at my ability not to crack with anger. When I finally arrived in the building still a half hour early I hopped up 4 flights of stairs and into the lounge. The snot-nosed classmates of mine were already sitting in there. They greeted me and pointed out, "We always know it's you coming up the hall." I was touched that I was noticed and recognized. "Oh, I must have a certain sound to my walk." "No, you are always panting like you are going to die." And, with that, the anger cracked and I hated all Canadians.
During class today I stared at the hot undergrad. You know, the sexy giant type who you stalked online to find out that he has a kid, he used to be an amateur wrestler, he looks better with short hair, and his facebook status reads, "single." It's getting pretty bad when I can't even pay attention in my favorite class, especially when the teacher is talking about things like how hard it is to write TV and how we should keep going and not be discouraged and we're all improving. Blah. But, when I am staring at how the hole in the pantleg of his jeans looks perfect, but natural her voice suddenly becomes like the teacher in Charlie Brown, a nasty Wah-Wah trumpet sound. This is all fine. What would be even better though would be if her voice suddenly turned into Tesla's "Love Song."
Fanny and the Monsters still hasn't come, this may mean that my readers don't exist or they think I should spend my own five bucks on amazon (including shipping) and get my own copy. I don't like either of these options. I am just going to pretend that it was bought and sent by multiple readers (ha! multiple readers, I wish) but somehow they had to buy it from England and it was sent via cargo plane and that cargo plane crashed into the ocean.
Tonight I went to a reading that didn't suck. It was amazing there was even poetry that didn't suck. And, the guy who mumbles all the time, that I want to be friends with, but who secretly doesn't like me because I keep saying, "What?" to him was actually audible and understandable. There were candy bunnies and one row of men who, like the candy bunnies were creepily identical-looking. They all had plain hoodies, longish hair, and facial hair of the brown/blonde variety. All of the writers who read were Canadian. Later, I confessed to them that I hadn't really read any Canadian authors and they said, "Don't bother." And, then they said, "Are you gonna eat that last pork rib?" If they publish work am I not supposed to read it then? I would've asked that question, but I had a pork rib in my mouth.
Tip of the Day: Hope that the short guy you don't really like asks you out again, even though you are glad he's moving away. Don't worry if he does, there will be no opportunity for that information to slip, as he will probably be talking about himself the whole time you are with him and you will sit there and daydream while he talks on and on, and eventually, you may try to kiss him to get him to shut up, or you may throw up, it's hard to say, but at least you will find out if you like him at all or you just like that he likes you.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I saw the dawn. Well, I saw my version of it. I saw 8:10 am. It was not all that great. The tater tots at breakfast were cold and hard, in a bad way. The horoscope for Scorpio basically said that I am a loser who no one wants to listen to, funny it always says something like that. And now, I just want to go to sleep and wake up at 10:30 am tomorrow. Then I want to plot the ways that I will spend the rest of my life avoiding 8:10 am.
So, it's getting super effing late again so I'll just do a quick recap of today's events:
Skype-ing is fun. It is even funny, like when your friend figures out an app that came with her computer that can make her have a birthday cake or a sharks mouth for a crown on her head. At least it's funny until you realize that she is paying more attention to the fake bubbles blowing past her face on the screen than to you.
I don't care what anyone says that boy from Twilight will never be hot to me. Looking at him even trying to imagine he is hot makes me feel like I am in love with a 15 year old. The 11 year age difference thing is fine (I should know), but when the boy in question is still in high school I have to draw the line. But, that doesn't mean that I don't think Patrick Dempsey was hot in Can't Buy Me Love. Somehow it's more acceptable. For example if he was 15 in that movie he can still be hot to me because I now know that he is no longer 15. There should be some sort of incorrect logic with that thought, but I don't really care. Sometimes you just have to declare yourself right.
So, last night in preparation for me seeing the dawn I packed my bag and laid out my clothes. I was so ready for the day that I made it, dressed, make up-ed, and bag at the ready to breakfast by 8:30. My early day was turning out wonderfully, except that when I got to the copy shop I didn't have any money. I actually had to go to an ATM to get 20 bucks, get change, insert my card, put money on my card, and restart the copy machine and reinsert my copy card to make the final 5 copies I needed for class. I was amazed at my ability not to crack with anger. When I finally arrived in the building still a half hour early I hopped up 4 flights of stairs and into the lounge. The snot-nosed classmates of mine were already sitting in there. They greeted me and pointed out, "We always know it's you coming up the hall." I was touched that I was noticed and recognized. "Oh, I must have a certain sound to my walk." "No, you are always panting like you are going to die." And, with that, the anger cracked and I hated all Canadians.
During class today I stared at the hot undergrad. You know, the sexy giant type who you stalked online to find out that he has a kid, he used to be an amateur wrestler, he looks better with short hair, and his facebook status reads, "single." It's getting pretty bad when I can't even pay attention in my favorite class, especially when the teacher is talking about things like how hard it is to write TV and how we should keep going and not be discouraged and we're all improving. Blah. But, when I am staring at how the hole in the pantleg of his jeans looks perfect, but natural her voice suddenly becomes like the teacher in Charlie Brown, a nasty Wah-Wah trumpet sound. This is all fine. What would be even better though would be if her voice suddenly turned into Tesla's "Love Song."
Fanny and the Monsters still hasn't come, this may mean that my readers don't exist or they think I should spend my own five bucks on amazon (including shipping) and get my own copy. I don't like either of these options. I am just going to pretend that it was bought and sent by multiple readers (ha! multiple readers, I wish) but somehow they had to buy it from England and it was sent via cargo plane and that cargo plane crashed into the ocean.
Tonight I went to a reading that didn't suck. It was amazing there was even poetry that didn't suck. And, the guy who mumbles all the time, that I want to be friends with, but who secretly doesn't like me because I keep saying, "What?" to him was actually audible and understandable. There were candy bunnies and one row of men who, like the candy bunnies were creepily identical-looking. They all had plain hoodies, longish hair, and facial hair of the brown/blonde variety. All of the writers who read were Canadian. Later, I confessed to them that I hadn't really read any Canadian authors and they said, "Don't bother." And, then they said, "Are you gonna eat that last pork rib?" If they publish work am I not supposed to read it then? I would've asked that question, but I had a pork rib in my mouth.
Tip of the Day: Hope that the short guy you don't really like asks you out again, even though you are glad he's moving away. Don't worry if he does, there will be no opportunity for that information to slip, as he will probably be talking about himself the whole time you are with him and you will sit there and daydream while he talks on and on, and eventually, you may try to kiss him to get him to shut up, or you may throw up, it's hard to say, but at least you will find out if you like him at all or you just like that he likes you.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Skpyer, L-Spot, Person Prozac, Dear Wal-mart, Fond of Fondue, Early Risin'
Day 207
Today I finally did what my father said that Oprah wanted me to do: I joined Skype. I was so excited about joining Skype that I put it on my facebook status update. Immediately, 6 people added me to their account, I have never felt this popular before. Okay, so there was that one time that I sang 'Cabaret' for karaoke and everyone sang along and danced. But, joining Skype was right up there. I spent all morning skype-ing with a friend, she showed me her belly and her shirtless boyfriend and a picture of her grandchild while I put make up on in the camera. All in all a wonderful morning. Oprah, was right.
The second part of the day was spent Skype-less, thus it was much less fun. But, I did find a spot in the library. I found THE spot. For months now I have been going to the library to study, but never quite happy with my location of studying. I've tried different areas on at least 4 of 6 floors. Tonight I found it, my L-spot. I was so happy with my disgustingly well-lit sub-basement location that I wrote my name on the carrel. The only other graffiti on the carrel was an inexplicable, "Fryboy" and a lovely, "FUCK SHIT." Finally, I have found my place. My place was even better when a friend sat on the other side of the carrel and I made paper airplanes to fly at her. At one point a security guard tromped by and the planes were grounded. But I learned something; there is nothing like finding a good L-spot and giving it a good rub down with a wet cloth. Yeah, it's gotten to the point of making sexual jokes based on libraries.
So, I am not sure if you know this but I went on an improvised horrid date to McDonald's yesterday. A "date" that I pretty much spent listening to my "date" kvetch until my friend's showed up. What can I say I am a sucker for brown-eyed men who wink. Anywho, I was online earlier and I ever so wanted to chat with him. I told myself that I shouldn't that he should come to me. This theory has never really worked out in the past, unless I wanted the boy to stay far, far away, then he comes too near too often. So, finally I caved in and started up a chat conversation with him. The night before he had come to me saying that he was having a horrible evening. I asked him if he was having a better night than last night and he responded, "I guess." That was when it all came crashing down. From the clues I gathered I am just a pill of Prozac. Yeah, guys come to me to feed on good energy (yeah, that's right I have sort of good energy sometimes) and then move on. Here's my question, where's my Prozac?
What does it mean when the most exciting thing that is happening in your life is the possibility that you may go to Wal-mart this week? I tried to tell myself that I was going to see the differences between a Canadian Wal-mart and an American Wal-mart. The trip is all just research, right? Wrong. It is in my blood to want to shop at the worst store in the world. Generations of Americans have lived, reproduced, and died so that I would be able to be the member of the family line who realizes the importance of buying things you don't need only because there is a Roll back price on them. Is there a pill for this condition? Or, should I wear my affliction with honor? This is my American-ness manifested, I should be proud and happy. Proud sure, happy? I'll be happy when I buy a crappy comforter for 15 bucks.
After supper tonight me and a friend went to her residence hall. Apparently, where she lives you have to have roommates but, once and awhile the hilarious girl who is like president of the residence will invite people over to munch on solidifying fondue and hear crazy stories about bad dates. Maybe I should move.
I really hate nights when you know you have to get up early. Being who I am it makes me want to stay up late just as a "fuck you" to the morning. The morning doesn't rule me. I will stay up all bleary-eyed watching a Kevin Smith interview on youtube for the sixth time. I will crawl into bed at some point, look at the clock and think, if i fall asleep in the next 20 minutes I will have gotten five hours of sleep, that's not bad. Then I will lie awake fantasizing about some stupid boy I don't like and re-cap everything that has gone wrong over the course of the day, and then go through a 20 minute, I-feel-guilty-for-being-ungrateful marathon of thoughts (thanks for that Mom and Dad). Then I will read from a book and none of it will make sense and then I will finally fall asleep and have dreams that passenger airliners are crashing all around me. God, going to bed sucks.
Tip of the Day: Never eat tiramisu. It's like a painting, it looks good but it doesn't taste good.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I finally did what my father said that Oprah wanted me to do: I joined Skype. I was so excited about joining Skype that I put it on my facebook status update. Immediately, 6 people added me to their account, I have never felt this popular before. Okay, so there was that one time that I sang 'Cabaret' for karaoke and everyone sang along and danced. But, joining Skype was right up there. I spent all morning skype-ing with a friend, she showed me her belly and her shirtless boyfriend and a picture of her grandchild while I put make up on in the camera. All in all a wonderful morning. Oprah, was right.
The second part of the day was spent Skype-less, thus it was much less fun. But, I did find a spot in the library. I found THE spot. For months now I have been going to the library to study, but never quite happy with my location of studying. I've tried different areas on at least 4 of 6 floors. Tonight I found it, my L-spot. I was so happy with my disgustingly well-lit sub-basement location that I wrote my name on the carrel. The only other graffiti on the carrel was an inexplicable, "Fryboy" and a lovely, "FUCK SHIT." Finally, I have found my place. My place was even better when a friend sat on the other side of the carrel and I made paper airplanes to fly at her. At one point a security guard tromped by and the planes were grounded. But I learned something; there is nothing like finding a good L-spot and giving it a good rub down with a wet cloth. Yeah, it's gotten to the point of making sexual jokes based on libraries.
So, I am not sure if you know this but I went on an improvised horrid date to McDonald's yesterday. A "date" that I pretty much spent listening to my "date" kvetch until my friend's showed up. What can I say I am a sucker for brown-eyed men who wink. Anywho, I was online earlier and I ever so wanted to chat with him. I told myself that I shouldn't that he should come to me. This theory has never really worked out in the past, unless I wanted the boy to stay far, far away, then he comes too near too often. So, finally I caved in and started up a chat conversation with him. The night before he had come to me saying that he was having a horrible evening. I asked him if he was having a better night than last night and he responded, "I guess." That was when it all came crashing down. From the clues I gathered I am just a pill of Prozac. Yeah, guys come to me to feed on good energy (yeah, that's right I have sort of good energy sometimes) and then move on. Here's my question, where's my Prozac?
What does it mean when the most exciting thing that is happening in your life is the possibility that you may go to Wal-mart this week? I tried to tell myself that I was going to see the differences between a Canadian Wal-mart and an American Wal-mart. The trip is all just research, right? Wrong. It is in my blood to want to shop at the worst store in the world. Generations of Americans have lived, reproduced, and died so that I would be able to be the member of the family line who realizes the importance of buying things you don't need only because there is a Roll back price on them. Is there a pill for this condition? Or, should I wear my affliction with honor? This is my American-ness manifested, I should be proud and happy. Proud sure, happy? I'll be happy when I buy a crappy comforter for 15 bucks.
After supper tonight me and a friend went to her residence hall. Apparently, where she lives you have to have roommates but, once and awhile the hilarious girl who is like president of the residence will invite people over to munch on solidifying fondue and hear crazy stories about bad dates. Maybe I should move.
I really hate nights when you know you have to get up early. Being who I am it makes me want to stay up late just as a "fuck you" to the morning. The morning doesn't rule me. I will stay up all bleary-eyed watching a Kevin Smith interview on youtube for the sixth time. I will crawl into bed at some point, look at the clock and think, if i fall asleep in the next 20 minutes I will have gotten five hours of sleep, that's not bad. Then I will lie awake fantasizing about some stupid boy I don't like and re-cap everything that has gone wrong over the course of the day, and then go through a 20 minute, I-feel-guilty-for-being-ungrateful marathon of thoughts (thanks for that Mom and Dad). Then I will read from a book and none of it will make sense and then I will finally fall asleep and have dreams that passenger airliners are crashing all around me. God, going to bed sucks.
Tip of the Day: Never eat tiramisu. It's like a painting, it looks good but it doesn't taste good.
-Canadian Castaway
Late Lunchin', Shoe Shopping, Corvette Crying, American Consumer, Thank You Friend, Listening is Boring, Group Date!,
Day 206
I need a new trick. Slamming 6 cups of coffee just makes me want to eat things, not write epic literature. Luckily, I had a lunch date with two friends at my favorite eatery. I will say, Canada certainly knows how to make a delicious eggs benedict. It is so delicious until the skinny girl across from you says, "Whoa, you must be hungry." She, of course, says this as you are snarfing down your food. You realize that she isn't going to eat all her hashbrowns, and you want to kill her or become bulimic, or just become bulimic on her. Then you curse yourself because you realize that she is your friend and you can't barf on her. Then you want to start a fight and become unfriends so you can barf on her if need be, and then you realize that you are so full you can barely put a water glass to your lips. But, then you realize it was all worth it.
After lunch my friends and I took a giant black Lincoln to the Sporting goods store to buy me a pair of running shoes. That's right, I am going to run, or something similar and slower. In any case I need something other than All-Stars to do this in, or so I hear. The guy at the shoestore wasn't very helpful, so my friends did their best. At one point I thought my feet had shrank down at least a size, until I realized that the restroom icon type person on the box wasn't wearing a skirt and I was actually wearing a men's 11. Finally, I found a pair for 40 bucks Canadian which is like the cheapest thing you can buy in Canada, period. My friend banned me from buying a ghetto sweatshirt so we went on our merry way, though the box still had a little man on it. I could always draw on a skirt for him. But, then again, I wasn't wearing a skirt today so I guess it could be me, and by default a girl.
When I spoke with my mother today she detailed to me the spoils of her nasty day. I sympathized with most of it, until the part where she said, "And, the worst part of all is that the Corvette we were going to buy was sold 2 hours before we got to the dealership." I'm sorry mother, but, boo hoo you didn't get to buy a sportscar today. I am so frickin' sad for you. That must really suck. All she said to me then was, "Get a job."
After the shoe shopping my friends and I split up, with intentions of doing homework. Translation: They did homework and I went and bought clothes. I am the shopper that would do anything for a deal. For example: I really didn't need an extra pair of pants, or a ring, or a necklace, but if you spent 100 bucks or more you get 25 bucks off. Gotta get a deal right? I wonder if that is part of my American-ness or something that I have in common with my Canadian brethren. I guess the true test would be to set up a few dollar bins and see if they bite. Thing is though, nothing ever costs a dollar in this country. I don't even think you can get anything at McDonald's here for a buck. Guess, I'll never know.
Speaking of McDonald's, after my shower and during my TV watching time a fellow resident messaged me on facebook asking me to join him to McDonald's (except he called it Mcrats). I agreed to join him. He is one of the men who I have been setup to marry. I got all jazzed up for our McDonald's outing (god, that sounds horribly sad and depressing). As in, I got dressed and spritzed myself (tiny bit better). He came over and noticed that I have shit on my walls and found my keys in a pile of my dishes. The entire walk there he vented to me about shit, non-stop. This was odd. I am usually the one venting. This made me appreciate my friends or well, friend (you know who you are). Listening is not that fun.
When we arrived he ordered and asked if I wanted anything. I told him a Coke Zero he ordered food and a soft drink. Then, the workers got our soda order mixed up twice. I was quite glad when he didn't say anything the third time. On the walk over we had seen some girls sitting out on the grass eating McDonald's. I nodded toward the door after he got his food. He said it was too cold. I didn't call off the marriage, but I did call him a "baby." Then we sat and he talked some more about himself, and I learned how to listen and watch a guy eat fries across the room while wondering what the guy across the room's deal was, just sitting there, shoveling them in and staring out the window.
As my "date" was mowing down another order of fries, the movie freak guy walked in. I leaned over and hushed my "date" and told him that if anyone asks we really were getting married, and nodded toward movie freak guy. The look on movie freak's face when he saw me with the "date" made me want to take back what I said. He looked like every teen boy in an 80s flick who sees the girl he likes with some other guy. Then I saw his fight with the ketchup machine and snapped out of it. Not even 3 minutes later my friend walked in. She immediately asked if we were on a date, in front of my "date" and movie freak. She told movie freak that she loved him and all was well. We made inside jokes to one another while "date" went on and on about everything I already know about Lady Gaga and "movie freak" drank a liter of strawberry milkshake.
After that we all set out to play pool, at the last second "date" opted out, dropping some sort of hint of us hanging out afterward (ahh, no) and movie freak said goodnight and trucked it across campus to his housing. He'd walked a long way out of his way to come with us in what he thought was the cold (they are all pussies). Surprisingly, he didn't grumble about any of it. The best part of the night happened then. My friend and I gossiped about boys in a courtyard that filled up with bubbles that someone had put in a nearby fountain. Why did I bother with all of that listening shit? Oh yeah, to have someone to talk about during bubble time.
Tip of the Day: Watching someone slurp down a liter of strawberry milkshake is quite fascinating. When they are proud of the fact that they can do that it makes you want to cry and then slap them. Don't do either.
-Canadian Castaway
I need a new trick. Slamming 6 cups of coffee just makes me want to eat things, not write epic literature. Luckily, I had a lunch date with two friends at my favorite eatery. I will say, Canada certainly knows how to make a delicious eggs benedict. It is so delicious until the skinny girl across from you says, "Whoa, you must be hungry." She, of course, says this as you are snarfing down your food. You realize that she isn't going to eat all her hashbrowns, and you want to kill her or become bulimic, or just become bulimic on her. Then you curse yourself because you realize that she is your friend and you can't barf on her. Then you want to start a fight and become unfriends so you can barf on her if need be, and then you realize that you are so full you can barely put a water glass to your lips. But, then you realize it was all worth it.
After lunch my friends and I took a giant black Lincoln to the Sporting goods store to buy me a pair of running shoes. That's right, I am going to run, or something similar and slower. In any case I need something other than All-Stars to do this in, or so I hear. The guy at the shoestore wasn't very helpful, so my friends did their best. At one point I thought my feet had shrank down at least a size, until I realized that the restroom icon type person on the box wasn't wearing a skirt and I was actually wearing a men's 11. Finally, I found a pair for 40 bucks Canadian which is like the cheapest thing you can buy in Canada, period. My friend banned me from buying a ghetto sweatshirt so we went on our merry way, though the box still had a little man on it. I could always draw on a skirt for him. But, then again, I wasn't wearing a skirt today so I guess it could be me, and by default a girl.
When I spoke with my mother today she detailed to me the spoils of her nasty day. I sympathized with most of it, until the part where she said, "And, the worst part of all is that the Corvette we were going to buy was sold 2 hours before we got to the dealership." I'm sorry mother, but, boo hoo you didn't get to buy a sportscar today. I am so frickin' sad for you. That must really suck. All she said to me then was, "Get a job."
After the shoe shopping my friends and I split up, with intentions of doing homework. Translation: They did homework and I went and bought clothes. I am the shopper that would do anything for a deal. For example: I really didn't need an extra pair of pants, or a ring, or a necklace, but if you spent 100 bucks or more you get 25 bucks off. Gotta get a deal right? I wonder if that is part of my American-ness or something that I have in common with my Canadian brethren. I guess the true test would be to set up a few dollar bins and see if they bite. Thing is though, nothing ever costs a dollar in this country. I don't even think you can get anything at McDonald's here for a buck. Guess, I'll never know.
Speaking of McDonald's, after my shower and during my TV watching time a fellow resident messaged me on facebook asking me to join him to McDonald's (except he called it Mcrats). I agreed to join him. He is one of the men who I have been setup to marry. I got all jazzed up for our McDonald's outing (god, that sounds horribly sad and depressing). As in, I got dressed and spritzed myself (tiny bit better). He came over and noticed that I have shit on my walls and found my keys in a pile of my dishes. The entire walk there he vented to me about shit, non-stop. This was odd. I am usually the one venting. This made me appreciate my friends or well, friend (you know who you are). Listening is not that fun.
When we arrived he ordered and asked if I wanted anything. I told him a Coke Zero he ordered food and a soft drink. Then, the workers got our soda order mixed up twice. I was quite glad when he didn't say anything the third time. On the walk over we had seen some girls sitting out on the grass eating McDonald's. I nodded toward the door after he got his food. He said it was too cold. I didn't call off the marriage, but I did call him a "baby." Then we sat and he talked some more about himself, and I learned how to listen and watch a guy eat fries across the room while wondering what the guy across the room's deal was, just sitting there, shoveling them in and staring out the window.
As my "date" was mowing down another order of fries, the movie freak guy walked in. I leaned over and hushed my "date" and told him that if anyone asks we really were getting married, and nodded toward movie freak guy. The look on movie freak's face when he saw me with the "date" made me want to take back what I said. He looked like every teen boy in an 80s flick who sees the girl he likes with some other guy. Then I saw his fight with the ketchup machine and snapped out of it. Not even 3 minutes later my friend walked in. She immediately asked if we were on a date, in front of my "date" and movie freak. She told movie freak that she loved him and all was well. We made inside jokes to one another while "date" went on and on about everything I already know about Lady Gaga and "movie freak" drank a liter of strawberry milkshake.
After that we all set out to play pool, at the last second "date" opted out, dropping some sort of hint of us hanging out afterward (ahh, no) and movie freak said goodnight and trucked it across campus to his housing. He'd walked a long way out of his way to come with us in what he thought was the cold (they are all pussies). Surprisingly, he didn't grumble about any of it. The best part of the night happened then. My friend and I gossiped about boys in a courtyard that filled up with bubbles that someone had put in a nearby fountain. Why did I bother with all of that listening shit? Oh yeah, to have someone to talk about during bubble time.
Tip of the Day: Watching someone slurp down a liter of strawberry milkshake is quite fascinating. When they are proud of the fact that they can do that it makes you want to cry and then slap them. Don't do either.
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Freaky Foot, Old-ness, "Herd of Fat People," Kirstie Alley on Oprah, Pre-Fame
Day 205
Tonight I was going to try to go to bed by 12. It is now 1:21 AM. What can I say there is so much chatting, peeking at the boy I want to kiss's window, and youtubing to be done before bed. This morning wasn't much better. I faked that I was writing a story and drank tons of coffee. I was non-stop, until I looked down at my feet and realized one foot barefoot in a sandal, the other socked, without any footwear was a metaphor for my day. Did I mention that I woke up this morning from a dream where passenger planes were trying to kill me? I won't go into more detail as telling others your dreams is super selfish, as they are always quite boring and totally irrelevant.
Grandma was right, getting old sucks. Alright so the not being able to move as well can be remedied, and the wrinkles can look good, if you are smiling. (Okay, so I am still in my 20s, but still) But, when you realize how the men you were attracted to are the same type of men you were attracted to 5 years ago you realize something: they are not the same age anymore, they are younger than your younger brother. The good news is, is that young Canadian will agree to marry you, so you can share dual citizenship, and he never asked how old you are. The bad news is that when you discussed wedding plans and he got all excited about having a Luau, and you didn't tell him you don't like cooked pineapple, you feel like a liar for showing fake excitement. Oh well, I could choke down a ring or two, but he'd better get a haircut.
I have a short story due for Monday's fiction class. I told my mother the plot line while she was shopping in Wal-Mart. She said, "That's interesting," in a disinterested voice. Then she detailed to me the "herd of fat people" that were taking over the Electronics section and I realized that, that was much more fascinating than my plot line could ever be.
My father is even better, he once again tried to convince me that he doesn't spend all afternoon watching Oprah. I started to believe him a little until I said, "Did you see the recent show with Kirstie Alley, Dad?" He launched into active gear, "Yep, I sure did. Man, she is just yo-yoing in weight recently, isn't she? She said that she's going to launch some new webcam..." My Dad can't remember to do my taxes that I call him about every single day, but he can remember what Kirstie Alley said to Oprah, I don't know whether to be disturbed or fascinated.
I had better become a famous writer someday so I can answer an interview question about what I do in my personal life. I would say, "Stay up until 2 am watching the short-lived Roseanne talk show, and thinking naughty thoughts about Craig Ferguson all the while eating dill pickle flavored sunflower seeds." Would people find that interesting or sad?
Tip of the Day: "Damn it Feels Good to Be a Gangsta" will always be a good song.
-Canadian Castaway
Tonight I was going to try to go to bed by 12. It is now 1:21 AM. What can I say there is so much chatting, peeking at the boy I want to kiss's window, and youtubing to be done before bed. This morning wasn't much better. I faked that I was writing a story and drank tons of coffee. I was non-stop, until I looked down at my feet and realized one foot barefoot in a sandal, the other socked, without any footwear was a metaphor for my day. Did I mention that I woke up this morning from a dream where passenger planes were trying to kill me? I won't go into more detail as telling others your dreams is super selfish, as they are always quite boring and totally irrelevant.
Grandma was right, getting old sucks. Alright so the not being able to move as well can be remedied, and the wrinkles can look good, if you are smiling. (Okay, so I am still in my 20s, but still) But, when you realize how the men you were attracted to are the same type of men you were attracted to 5 years ago you realize something: they are not the same age anymore, they are younger than your younger brother. The good news is, is that young Canadian will agree to marry you, so you can share dual citizenship, and he never asked how old you are. The bad news is that when you discussed wedding plans and he got all excited about having a Luau, and you didn't tell him you don't like cooked pineapple, you feel like a liar for showing fake excitement. Oh well, I could choke down a ring or two, but he'd better get a haircut.
I have a short story due for Monday's fiction class. I told my mother the plot line while she was shopping in Wal-Mart. She said, "That's interesting," in a disinterested voice. Then she detailed to me the "herd of fat people" that were taking over the Electronics section and I realized that, that was much more fascinating than my plot line could ever be.
My father is even better, he once again tried to convince me that he doesn't spend all afternoon watching Oprah. I started to believe him a little until I said, "Did you see the recent show with Kirstie Alley, Dad?" He launched into active gear, "Yep, I sure did. Man, she is just yo-yoing in weight recently, isn't she? She said that she's going to launch some new webcam..." My Dad can't remember to do my taxes that I call him about every single day, but he can remember what Kirstie Alley said to Oprah, I don't know whether to be disturbed or fascinated.
I had better become a famous writer someday so I can answer an interview question about what I do in my personal life. I would say, "Stay up until 2 am watching the short-lived Roseanne talk show, and thinking naughty thoughts about Craig Ferguson all the while eating dill pickle flavored sunflower seeds." Would people find that interesting or sad?
Tip of the Day: "Damn it Feels Good to Be a Gangsta" will always be a good song.
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, March 19, 2010
Canadian Taxes Virgin No More, Heartbroken, Marriage Proposals, Boy Training
Day 204
Canadian taxes aren't all that exciting. I was sent to a room that was not unlike a dingier version of the room where I took baton lessons. (Yeah, I took baton lessons, shove it) There were a few scattered tables with filled with people getting their taxes done. I gave the lady my paperwork and she sighed. "Guess, I'll have to fill out a paper return." She started ripping out pages and filling in the blanks with tiny zeros. She asked her fellow tax help people a few questions which made me quite nervous, but I didn't say anything. She grunted at a mathematical function. I said, "Gee, I hope they pay you well." She said, "I am a volunteer." "Guess you are paid in karma," I said. What I wanted to say was, "Isn't there something better than this to do with your free time, like stare at naked people on nearby beaches?"
She filled out the final pages of my tax forms, while conducting a conversation with her fellow helpers. At the end of the whole process she said, "You didn't pay any in." I said, "What?" She pointed to the boxes on my tax forms where it should say how much money I paid to the government, the boxes were blank. Immediately I thought, "Shit, I owe money, they are going to come after me and charge me interest." But, she informed me that this is Canada and that would never happen it just means that I don't get back any money. Add one more tick in the pro-Canada column. She then told me that I wouldn't have had to bother filing for taxes at all.
After I did my taxes, ate a bagel sandwich, and outlined a short story I was feeling quite awesome. I went to return my movies to the videostore that I want to work at. Correction: the videostore I wrote an amazing love/cover letter to when I found out they were hiring last week. As I walked in the door the familiar guy from behind the counter said, "Didn't you get my call yesterday?" I said, "No." He then went on to explain that he had called yesterday, and because I didn't call back they hired someone else. That is when my heart broke. I was so crestfallen, I walked to the corner and promptly got on the wrong bus.
I called my mother who told me, "Well, I think you should learn a lesson from all this. When you are looking for a job you need to constantly check your phone." I said, "Mom, you are supposed to tell me it wasn't meant to be." She said, "Learn your lesson." It took many phone calls to friends who told me that it was fucked up they didn't even interview, but mostly it was the realization that I came here to go to school not work at a videostore that got me over my self-hatred. Well that, and going to the big grocery store and taking ritzy organic cranberries from a bulk bin and labeling the bag with the cheaper, crappier cranberry bin number helped as well.
At supper tonight I was proposed to (sort of) and asked a man to marry me. The proposal (directed to me) went something like this, "I'll marry you and get American citizenship." The proposal by me to a Canadian went like this, "Will you marry me?" And, his immediate response was, "Yes." Add yet another pro-Canada tick in the pro column. But, when I was told I would marry and give out U.S. citizenship I said, "What's in it for me? Do you have any special skills?" He told me that he would work and I could live in Mexico and he would send me money and I would drive a fancy car. Hmm, sounds pretty good. The Canadian offered me nothing. I think I'll take both anyway just to see who has better skills.
My friend from next door joined me for dinner. Not only did she crack me up with her observation, "No cake today, huh?" She told the guy who likes me, but doesn't listen to me, to listen to me. Not only did he spend the rest of supper listening to me, he did whatever I said. He even spent a good deal of time on his crackberry looking up movietimes for a movie he would not see with me. If I weren't such a judgemental bitch I may have taken this into consideration and overlooked his windpants that reminded me of lesbian gym teachers. God, I am so vain.
The rest of the evening was spent playing UNO and Battleship, learning naughty Norweigan phrases, and talking about neighbors having sex. Just the usual.
Tip of the Day: It's fun to play with the scooter, but know you will grow out of it.
-Canadian Castaway
Canadian taxes aren't all that exciting. I was sent to a room that was not unlike a dingier version of the room where I took baton lessons. (Yeah, I took baton lessons, shove it) There were a few scattered tables with filled with people getting their taxes done. I gave the lady my paperwork and she sighed. "Guess, I'll have to fill out a paper return." She started ripping out pages and filling in the blanks with tiny zeros. She asked her fellow tax help people a few questions which made me quite nervous, but I didn't say anything. She grunted at a mathematical function. I said, "Gee, I hope they pay you well." She said, "I am a volunteer." "Guess you are paid in karma," I said. What I wanted to say was, "Isn't there something better than this to do with your free time, like stare at naked people on nearby beaches?"
She filled out the final pages of my tax forms, while conducting a conversation with her fellow helpers. At the end of the whole process she said, "You didn't pay any in." I said, "What?" She pointed to the boxes on my tax forms where it should say how much money I paid to the government, the boxes were blank. Immediately I thought, "Shit, I owe money, they are going to come after me and charge me interest." But, she informed me that this is Canada and that would never happen it just means that I don't get back any money. Add one more tick in the pro-Canada column. She then told me that I wouldn't have had to bother filing for taxes at all.
After I did my taxes, ate a bagel sandwich, and outlined a short story I was feeling quite awesome. I went to return my movies to the videostore that I want to work at. Correction: the videostore I wrote an amazing love/cover letter to when I found out they were hiring last week. As I walked in the door the familiar guy from behind the counter said, "Didn't you get my call yesterday?" I said, "No." He then went on to explain that he had called yesterday, and because I didn't call back they hired someone else. That is when my heart broke. I was so crestfallen, I walked to the corner and promptly got on the wrong bus.
I called my mother who told me, "Well, I think you should learn a lesson from all this. When you are looking for a job you need to constantly check your phone." I said, "Mom, you are supposed to tell me it wasn't meant to be." She said, "Learn your lesson." It took many phone calls to friends who told me that it was fucked up they didn't even interview, but mostly it was the realization that I came here to go to school not work at a videostore that got me over my self-hatred. Well that, and going to the big grocery store and taking ritzy organic cranberries from a bulk bin and labeling the bag with the cheaper, crappier cranberry bin number helped as well.
At supper tonight I was proposed to (sort of) and asked a man to marry me. The proposal (directed to me) went something like this, "I'll marry you and get American citizenship." The proposal by me to a Canadian went like this, "Will you marry me?" And, his immediate response was, "Yes." Add yet another pro-Canada tick in the pro column. But, when I was told I would marry and give out U.S. citizenship I said, "What's in it for me? Do you have any special skills?" He told me that he would work and I could live in Mexico and he would send me money and I would drive a fancy car. Hmm, sounds pretty good. The Canadian offered me nothing. I think I'll take both anyway just to see who has better skills.
My friend from next door joined me for dinner. Not only did she crack me up with her observation, "No cake today, huh?" She told the guy who likes me, but doesn't listen to me, to listen to me. Not only did he spend the rest of supper listening to me, he did whatever I said. He even spent a good deal of time on his crackberry looking up movietimes for a movie he would not see with me. If I weren't such a judgemental bitch I may have taken this into consideration and overlooked his windpants that reminded me of lesbian gym teachers. God, I am so vain.
The rest of the evening was spent playing UNO and Battleship, learning naughty Norweigan phrases, and talking about neighbors having sex. Just the usual.
Tip of the Day: It's fun to play with the scooter, but know you will grow out of it.
-Canadian Castaway
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Fanny and the Monsters, Elevator Flirt, Naked Frisbee, Canadian St. Patrick's Day Shenanigans
Day 203
Once again it is nearing 3 am. Okay, so I have been reading an article called, "10 Men That Are Hotter Than Johnny Depp" btw, they are NOT hotter. Anyway, I have to make this brief as tomorrow I am going to do Canadian taxes for the first time (to be continued). Here are some of the highlights from St. Patty's Day Canada-style.
This morning I went to the English Department book sale. Seriously, I don't know what selling a few 50 cent books and a couple cookies is going to do as far as raising funds, but it was fun. There was a lady bitching that the books were up too high on the shelves. There was a book entitled, "Fanny and the Monsters," but it had dinosaurs on the cover (not monsters). Now that I think of it, I should've dropped the extra 50 cents on that one. If anyone reads this fucking blog and gets me a copy of that book I will do something wonderful for you like write a love letter on your behalf. I am not so good at them, but I could get some pink paper, lipstick, and perfume to spruce it up.
The best part of the book sale though, was the elevator ride. I got on an elevator going up. It went all the way up to the 12th floor of the building where it dropped off its last passenger: a History grad student. Here is the exchange we had:
Me: What's on the twelfth floor?
Him: It's the History Department.
Me: Oh, I've never been in this building before.
Him: Oh, are you just visiting, checking out the campus?
Me: No, I am in the Creative Writing program.
pause
Him: Welcome to the building.
And, then he walked out of my life.
After I bought three books for a whopping $1.50 I went down to the clothing optional beach. There were only a few naked people milling around. I set myself up on the other side of them. Somehow these older, weathered-looking people make me feel safe. Lord knows why, it's not like they could carry any sort of weapon to defend me with. At the beach I wrote a rant, and watched the sea, and looked to my left to spot a couple younger, hard-bodied naked people playing frisbee. I wonder if playing naked is more fun. I wonder if they woke up this morning and thought, "Gee, I think today is a naked frisbee kind of day."
After coming up from the beach my friend and I played a clothed frisbee game in the courtyard of my building. Yeah, the same courtyard where we played last time and I received that passive aggressive email about the volume of my voice from someone in my building. So, I yelled a lot more today. But, today was extra special because we shared the courtyard with the soccer team. The best part is that the team played directly outside the dickwad's window, wonder if any of them got emailed.
As it was St. Patty's Day and I am once again employed in a bar, I had to work tonight. Here are some of the high and lowlights from my first ever Canadian St. Patrick's Day:
We saw a guy puke in the shrubbery, wipe his mouth off with his hand, and them wipe his hand on his jeans. The guy them turned his head to see where the involuntary, "Eww!" came from. It was then I noticed that he was wearing a sweatshirt with my schools initials on it. That would be a great promo photo.
Tonight I learned two things about having an open mic. 1. Where there are drunk people there is the song, "Sweet Caroline" ALWAYS. and 2. The girl who can't sing, will sing, A LOT.
I also learned that the Australian man is charming. But, he is charming to everyone.
A guy walked by me and I said, "I like your glowstick." He said, "Thanks."
Bartender, after leaning in close to talk to me, "I might have mono."
I had some guy actually say to me, "I have the feeling you and me will be making out by the end of the night." (We didn't)
My favorite part of the whole evening happened during a fight. Two good-sized guys were going at each other with one of the floor staff attempting to pull them apart. I told the head bartender what was going on. The head bartender is a quarter of my weight. He ran around the bar, and jumped into the middle of the fight and broke it up. I looked over at a pack of beefcake men. The biggest one was approaching me, and I said, "Go be the hero." He said, "I'll get him outta here." God, I love my command of meatheads. I wonder if I should use my powers for good or evil. Guess, it depends on who pays more.
Tip of the Day: Just because your friend sends you a box of candy doesn't mean you have to eat it all in one sitting. If you do wind up doing this, throw out the wrappers straight away, and try to remember that lady you read about online who wants to become the first 1,000 pound mother. But don't think, 'Oh, this candy is nothing compared to what that bitch eats," think of what Kate Moss said, "Nothing tastes as good as thin."
-Canadian Castaway
Once again it is nearing 3 am. Okay, so I have been reading an article called, "10 Men That Are Hotter Than Johnny Depp" btw, they are NOT hotter. Anyway, I have to make this brief as tomorrow I am going to do Canadian taxes for the first time (to be continued). Here are some of the highlights from St. Patty's Day Canada-style.
This morning I went to the English Department book sale. Seriously, I don't know what selling a few 50 cent books and a couple cookies is going to do as far as raising funds, but it was fun. There was a lady bitching that the books were up too high on the shelves. There was a book entitled, "Fanny and the Monsters," but it had dinosaurs on the cover (not monsters). Now that I think of it, I should've dropped the extra 50 cents on that one. If anyone reads this fucking blog and gets me a copy of that book I will do something wonderful for you like write a love letter on your behalf. I am not so good at them, but I could get some pink paper, lipstick, and perfume to spruce it up.
The best part of the book sale though, was the elevator ride. I got on an elevator going up. It went all the way up to the 12th floor of the building where it dropped off its last passenger: a History grad student. Here is the exchange we had:
Me: What's on the twelfth floor?
Him: It's the History Department.
Me: Oh, I've never been in this building before.
Him: Oh, are you just visiting, checking out the campus?
Me: No, I am in the Creative Writing program.
pause
Him: Welcome to the building.
And, then he walked out of my life.
After I bought three books for a whopping $1.50 I went down to the clothing optional beach. There were only a few naked people milling around. I set myself up on the other side of them. Somehow these older, weathered-looking people make me feel safe. Lord knows why, it's not like they could carry any sort of weapon to defend me with. At the beach I wrote a rant, and watched the sea, and looked to my left to spot a couple younger, hard-bodied naked people playing frisbee. I wonder if playing naked is more fun. I wonder if they woke up this morning and thought, "Gee, I think today is a naked frisbee kind of day."
After coming up from the beach my friend and I played a clothed frisbee game in the courtyard of my building. Yeah, the same courtyard where we played last time and I received that passive aggressive email about the volume of my voice from someone in my building. So, I yelled a lot more today. But, today was extra special because we shared the courtyard with the soccer team. The best part is that the team played directly outside the dickwad's window, wonder if any of them got emailed.
As it was St. Patty's Day and I am once again employed in a bar, I had to work tonight. Here are some of the high and lowlights from my first ever Canadian St. Patrick's Day:
We saw a guy puke in the shrubbery, wipe his mouth off with his hand, and them wipe his hand on his jeans. The guy them turned his head to see where the involuntary, "Eww!" came from. It was then I noticed that he was wearing a sweatshirt with my schools initials on it. That would be a great promo photo.
Tonight I learned two things about having an open mic. 1. Where there are drunk people there is the song, "Sweet Caroline" ALWAYS. and 2. The girl who can't sing, will sing, A LOT.
I also learned that the Australian man is charming. But, he is charming to everyone.
A guy walked by me and I said, "I like your glowstick." He said, "Thanks."
Bartender, after leaning in close to talk to me, "I might have mono."
I had some guy actually say to me, "I have the feeling you and me will be making out by the end of the night." (We didn't)
My favorite part of the whole evening happened during a fight. Two good-sized guys were going at each other with one of the floor staff attempting to pull them apart. I told the head bartender what was going on. The head bartender is a quarter of my weight. He ran around the bar, and jumped into the middle of the fight and broke it up. I looked over at a pack of beefcake men. The biggest one was approaching me, and I said, "Go be the hero." He said, "I'll get him outta here." God, I love my command of meatheads. I wonder if I should use my powers for good or evil. Guess, it depends on who pays more.
Tip of the Day: Just because your friend sends you a box of candy doesn't mean you have to eat it all in one sitting. If you do wind up doing this, throw out the wrappers straight away, and try to remember that lady you read about online who wants to become the first 1,000 pound mother. But don't think, 'Oh, this candy is nothing compared to what that bitch eats," think of what Kate Moss said, "Nothing tastes as good as thin."
-Canadian Castaway
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Mom-erator, Distinguished Faculty, Canada vs. The U.S. Humor Throwdown, Quieter, Mould Mystery Solved
Day 202
Today I bought a mom-erator. A mom-eartor is five dollar, 1970s-looking vibrator. What can I say? I like history? I'll buy anything for 5 bucks? While we were buying cheap vibrators at the campus Health and Wellness Center I also picked up a couple condoms, one was a nicely-wrapped Trojan. This I gave to my awkward friend Bill at school. He took it from me and said, "Thanks Emily, when I use it I will think of you." I have never read anywhere how to respond to something like that. So I said, "Thank you." And we smiled at each other, and it wasn't too weird.
A second year student, an undergrad who asks tons of questions, and myself busted into the writing faculty meeting to propose that we have a student association, and that they should give us money to have the association. The scattered faculty looked like 14 year olds being having to follow along in a textbook when they'd rather be carving their initials into a desktop. I wonder what other faculty meetings are like? Does the chair of the department wear a gray hoodie when say the Chemistry faculty meets? We were invited to come and sit in at any time. One instructor noted that students from the past used to come by quite often. I asked why that stopped, and one of the glassy-eyed teachers piped up, "Because they are boring as hell."
This email was from the same dicklicker who got upset over a picture on facebook a few months back. The picture contained both him and I. The "you are a nerd!" comments were directed at me. But, he didn't get it. He sent out an email claiming that he was the butt of cruel jokes. Ha! To be honest I was a little jealous that one didn't grace my inbox. But, today I was lucky, today it was directed at me. I am not sure what his deal is, I mean, just because I stopped saying "Hi" to him at supper he thinks I am pissed off. He must think I think a lot of him. Anyway, today's email was about the volume of my voice and how he had a headache and that I should think of other's before I have fun and be loud outside. I should write him back and thank him for making me laugh so hard. But, I think it would be more fun to have a conversation on my cellphone outside his door at 3 am. Ohh, and I unfriended him.
So, for many months I have had a horrible mould (Canadian spelling) smell coming from my bathroom. Tonight, I finally realized the solution to this problem: cleaning. I know, crazy, right? I started wiping things down, only to discover an enormous amount of brown sludge hidden under the shower door. Surely, this must be the source of the smell. I wonder if I should keep telling the office of my building that it smells like mould anyhow so they have someone come and clean the vents. God, it'd be nice to have some clean vents, and workmen.
Tip of the Day: Don't tell anyone when you find a baggie in the street.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I bought a mom-erator. A mom-eartor is five dollar, 1970s-looking vibrator. What can I say? I like history? I'll buy anything for 5 bucks? While we were buying cheap vibrators at the campus Health and Wellness Center I also picked up a couple condoms, one was a nicely-wrapped Trojan. This I gave to my awkward friend Bill at school. He took it from me and said, "Thanks Emily, when I use it I will think of you." I have never read anywhere how to respond to something like that. So I said, "Thank you." And we smiled at each other, and it wasn't too weird.
A second year student, an undergrad who asks tons of questions, and myself busted into the writing faculty meeting to propose that we have a student association, and that they should give us money to have the association. The scattered faculty looked like 14 year olds being having to follow along in a textbook when they'd rather be carving their initials into a desktop. I wonder what other faculty meetings are like? Does the chair of the department wear a gray hoodie when say the Chemistry faculty meets? We were invited to come and sit in at any time. One instructor noted that students from the past used to come by quite often. I asked why that stopped, and one of the glassy-eyed teachers piped up, "Because they are boring as hell."
Today will go down as the day that I became a full-blown Anti-Canadian racist. I don't care how educated you are as a Canadian, there are just some things you will NEVER understand about American culture. For example, when a Non-Fiction American student writes a satirical essay in which he assumes the position of old Republican/young-people-suck it's funny as hell because it is a clear impression of every male member over 30 in my (and many other people's) extended family who hates young people and that they know best. The Canadians on the other hand thought that he was being ohh, so judgemental. Certainly, all older people don't think like that. Duh. One of them went so far as to say that there were certainly many Republican politicians who were kind and caring people. What the fuck do they teach these people? Old people wouldn't say sons of bitches (they say) or the phrase, "Fuck 'em" when it pertains to the younger generation the Canadians said. Really? Do I need to bring my dad to class? And, for the love of God do you not get satire? It's like parody, but only more effective. Jesus, get a goddamn clue, or a Lenny Bruce record. (okay, sure I seem upset, and I was, but it is ohh so fun to tell the know-it-all Canadians they don't know shit. Almost as much fun as it must be for old Republican men telling young liberals they don't know shit and they don't need universal healthcare.)
There is nothing like a frisbee to cure the angry blues of wanting to kill Canadian classmates. What's even better is a good laugh (what's even better is good sex, I hear). When my friends and I got in from playing frisbee in the courtyard of my building I received an email message with the subject, "Quieter." Here is what the first line said: "I know you are pissed off with me for some reason. I dont care why.. But if you aren't already, you should be by the end of this email."This email was from the same dicklicker who got upset over a picture on facebook a few months back. The picture contained both him and I. The "you are a nerd!" comments were directed at me. But, he didn't get it. He sent out an email claiming that he was the butt of cruel jokes. Ha! To be honest I was a little jealous that one didn't grace my inbox. But, today I was lucky, today it was directed at me. I am not sure what his deal is, I mean, just because I stopped saying "Hi" to him at supper he thinks I am pissed off. He must think I think a lot of him. Anyway, today's email was about the volume of my voice and how he had a headache and that I should think of other's before I have fun and be loud outside. I should write him back and thank him for making me laugh so hard. But, I think it would be more fun to have a conversation on my cellphone outside his door at 3 am. Ohh, and I unfriended him.
So, for many months I have had a horrible mould (Canadian spelling) smell coming from my bathroom. Tonight, I finally realized the solution to this problem: cleaning. I know, crazy, right? I started wiping things down, only to discover an enormous amount of brown sludge hidden under the shower door. Surely, this must be the source of the smell. I wonder if I should keep telling the office of my building that it smells like mould anyhow so they have someone come and clean the vents. God, it'd be nice to have some clean vents, and workmen.
Tip of the Day: Don't tell anyone when you find a baggie in the street.
-Canadian Castaway
Monday, March 15, 2010
Are YOU Okay, Projectiles, Plotting Deviant Behavior, Shan't Shart, Pit-Bull Fighting, Cheese Dealer Wanted
Day 201
It started as another tater tot and class-type day. The only difference is that when I showed up to class the teacher wasn't there, only half of the class showed up, and the grad secretary was chasing me down the hall, handing me a sheet of paper with a number to text to win Gaga tickets. That is when I should've gone home. But, I didn't. I sat through discussion on stories I didn't understand, but it was alright seeing as the girl who doesn't know how to read Roman Numerals was there and I felt like a genius. I should bake her a cake. Anyway, in TV class my peers instead of praising my work, went on and on about how the "main character" sucked. This is fine, I needed to hear it, I am here to learn what's not working. But, what they don't tell you you need is to learn how to have enough self-control to not slap the guy next to you when he rubs your back after your mild verbal your-show-sucks beating and, in a tone like you would use to a sick 5 year old says, "Are you okay, sweetie?"
Not only was the chicken this evening amazing (except the skewer part, they are so jabby and annoying and pointless) there were garbanzo beans. The beauty of garbanzo beans in a cafeteria setting is that they have enough weight to fly, but not enough girth to be noticed by everyone or really take an eye out (unless you are awesome at throwing them). Thus, catapulting them from your spoon at the guy across the room doesn't start a total riot of dirty looks. Isn't that sad? I live in a residence where what would be considered the beginning of a food fight is frowned upon. Seriously, these people need to start living a little.
What was discussed at dinner was that my upstairs crazy South African freakish animal lover neighbor likes gin, and she agrees that we should design and erect some sort of pulley and bucket system from my window to hers. There was also mention of a tin can string outfit, and tubing that I am supposed to hook up to a gin bottle that would act as a straw for her to get a drink from. I was instructed that when I start to see vomit in the hose I should stop giving the gin. Guess, we'll need a clear hose. All of these things are great, sure, but the real reason I like her is that when I suggested we drink gin, steal toilet paper and TP the trees in our courtyard she said, "Yeah! And, let's put dishwashing liquid in the fountain. And, Oh! Oh! I know what would really piss them off is if we broke into the Japanese Tea Garden and TP'd their trees. Yah!"
Tonight I learned the most magnificent word: shart. A friend and I were walking down the street. I leaned over and said to her, "I need to fart." She said, "Okay, just make sure it isn't a shart." She then explained the obvious to me: shit + fart = shart. Luckily, I did not shart myself. For some reason though I want to tell my Dad this word, but I am a little afraid he will tell me he sharts. Hmm.
Today I looked at my facebook and found out that I was invited to 3 events in the U.S. next week, zero events in Canada, I have yet to confirm or deny the girl I hate access to being my friend or not, and I am invited to join and donate to "Stop Pit-bull Fighting." I don't know about anyone else on facebook, but I feel slightly disturbed by these things and wonder why I log in at all. Oh yeah, to post that I just learned the word "shart." Duh.
In an effort to be a cheap ass and to boycott my province's ridiculous price of cheese I refuse to buy any of it. But, here's the deal: I miss cheese. I miss cheese so much I am trying to work out the wording of a craiglist ad. "Wanted Cheese Dealer: Conversation, minimal, love for cheese mutual, non-discriminatory. Discreet."
Tip of the Day: When you look into an acquaintance's fridge and don't see anything you'd like to eat, it's time to go.
-Canadian Castaway
It started as another tater tot and class-type day. The only difference is that when I showed up to class the teacher wasn't there, only half of the class showed up, and the grad secretary was chasing me down the hall, handing me a sheet of paper with a number to text to win Gaga tickets. That is when I should've gone home. But, I didn't. I sat through discussion on stories I didn't understand, but it was alright seeing as the girl who doesn't know how to read Roman Numerals was there and I felt like a genius. I should bake her a cake. Anyway, in TV class my peers instead of praising my work, went on and on about how the "main character" sucked. This is fine, I needed to hear it, I am here to learn what's not working. But, what they don't tell you you need is to learn how to have enough self-control to not slap the guy next to you when he rubs your back after your mild verbal your-show-sucks beating and, in a tone like you would use to a sick 5 year old says, "Are you okay, sweetie?"
Not only was the chicken this evening amazing (except the skewer part, they are so jabby and annoying and pointless) there were garbanzo beans. The beauty of garbanzo beans in a cafeteria setting is that they have enough weight to fly, but not enough girth to be noticed by everyone or really take an eye out (unless you are awesome at throwing them). Thus, catapulting them from your spoon at the guy across the room doesn't start a total riot of dirty looks. Isn't that sad? I live in a residence where what would be considered the beginning of a food fight is frowned upon. Seriously, these people need to start living a little.
What was discussed at dinner was that my upstairs crazy South African freakish animal lover neighbor likes gin, and she agrees that we should design and erect some sort of pulley and bucket system from my window to hers. There was also mention of a tin can string outfit, and tubing that I am supposed to hook up to a gin bottle that would act as a straw for her to get a drink from. I was instructed that when I start to see vomit in the hose I should stop giving the gin. Guess, we'll need a clear hose. All of these things are great, sure, but the real reason I like her is that when I suggested we drink gin, steal toilet paper and TP the trees in our courtyard she said, "Yeah! And, let's put dishwashing liquid in the fountain. And, Oh! Oh! I know what would really piss them off is if we broke into the Japanese Tea Garden and TP'd their trees. Yah!"
Tonight I learned the most magnificent word: shart. A friend and I were walking down the street. I leaned over and said to her, "I need to fart." She said, "Okay, just make sure it isn't a shart." She then explained the obvious to me: shit + fart = shart. Luckily, I did not shart myself. For some reason though I want to tell my Dad this word, but I am a little afraid he will tell me he sharts. Hmm.
Today I looked at my facebook and found out that I was invited to 3 events in the U.S. next week, zero events in Canada, I have yet to confirm or deny the girl I hate access to being my friend or not, and I am invited to join and donate to "Stop Pit-bull Fighting." I don't know about anyone else on facebook, but I feel slightly disturbed by these things and wonder why I log in at all. Oh yeah, to post that I just learned the word "shart." Duh.
In an effort to be a cheap ass and to boycott my province's ridiculous price of cheese I refuse to buy any of it. But, here's the deal: I miss cheese. I miss cheese so much I am trying to work out the wording of a craiglist ad. "Wanted Cheese Dealer: Conversation, minimal, love for cheese mutual, non-discriminatory. Discreet."
Tip of the Day: When you look into an acquaintance's fridge and don't see anything you'd like to eat, it's time to go.
-Canadian Castaway
Pop Star Sandwiches, Guns, Sunday Ritual, Spoony with Clooney, Degrassi Moral, Pool Table Lover, Daylight Asshole Time
Day 200 (Yay!)
This morning I spent watching Beyonce and Lady Gaga eat a sandwich. Getting through the long, pointless prison sequence to them in a car aggressively eating is well worth the wait, not to mention that after everyone (including a dog) is poisoned everyone still alive dances wearing American flag gear. Maybe poisoning is patriotic. Anyway, the only part of my morning when I wasn't dancing to Gaga was spent having my brother point a very real handgun at my head via gmail video chat. We have a good time.
When I finally left my room today my friend and I got ogled on the bus, had a trip to a french cafe, and then a long held tradition of mine was upheld. Turns out that buying silver glitter eyeliner and lipstick with names like Aftershock is the best way to spend your Sunday afternoon. I imagine many years from now doing the same thing. I just don't know what I am going to do with all the sparkles and Aftershocks.
The crazed guy who comes to my rez to show movies on Sundays came by tonight to show Up in the Air. He likes two things; mainstream movies that win awards and me. I would like him too if he'd shut up and listen to me, or not throw remote controls on the floor when the speakers aren't functioning. The good news about putting up with movie guy is that tonight's movie proved that George Clooney is getting hotter everyday. The funny news is that when the film ended my neighbor was upset. She summed up what the moral of the story was to her, "Get married." I heard her, but I was thinking the moral of the story was, "Damn, isnt' it weird how hot George Clooney's calves are? And, doesn't he look like an older Joshua Jackson." Maybe I missed something. Nah.
I watched an episode of Degrassi Junior High tonight. Spoiler Alert! (that looks so dumb) It's the episode where Joey Jeremiah gets beat up by a Dwayne. Scooter (tiny little nerdy kid with cheezies) then tells Dwayne, "You are a bully." Scooter offers Joey Jeremiah his cheezies instead of Dwayne. Okay, so it sounds dorky. Fuck you. But what I am wondering if I misunderstood the moral of this episode (see above, I suck at moral of the story shit). From what I understand the moral is: If you get beat up nerdy kids will give you free cheezies. Somehow though, I don't think that's what they were going for. But, I sure do love cheezies.
Once, about 8 months ago, I made out with a friend of mine on his pool table. I know, I used to be fun. Anyhow, today he messaged me on facebook to let me know he found my earring from that night in his house. This is how he wrote it, "found your erring from that nite. red white." I don't really remember that earring. But, I talked to him anyway. He had, "5 beeeerrs" before he found me online. He asked me when I am coming home, and then we plotted an evening. Apparently, when I go home I am going to his house to sit naked in his hot tub, drinking Mai Tai's out of real coconuts, watching The Lost Boys, and listening to Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again." Then he wrote "penis." Gee, I can't wait to go home and see what my earring looks like.
Also,
Dear Daylight Savings Time (you fucking dickweed),
Give me my friggin hour back so I can watch 2 more episodes of shitty Canadian TV from the 80s and paint my toenails before going to bed.
Love, Emily
Tip of the Day: Eating a plate of shitty pasta never helps.
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I spent watching Beyonce and Lady Gaga eat a sandwich. Getting through the long, pointless prison sequence to them in a car aggressively eating is well worth the wait, not to mention that after everyone (including a dog) is poisoned everyone still alive dances wearing American flag gear. Maybe poisoning is patriotic. Anyway, the only part of my morning when I wasn't dancing to Gaga was spent having my brother point a very real handgun at my head via gmail video chat. We have a good time.
When I finally left my room today my friend and I got ogled on the bus, had a trip to a french cafe, and then a long held tradition of mine was upheld. Turns out that buying silver glitter eyeliner and lipstick with names like Aftershock is the best way to spend your Sunday afternoon. I imagine many years from now doing the same thing. I just don't know what I am going to do with all the sparkles and Aftershocks.
The crazed guy who comes to my rez to show movies on Sundays came by tonight to show Up in the Air. He likes two things; mainstream movies that win awards and me. I would like him too if he'd shut up and listen to me, or not throw remote controls on the floor when the speakers aren't functioning. The good news about putting up with movie guy is that tonight's movie proved that George Clooney is getting hotter everyday. The funny news is that when the film ended my neighbor was upset. She summed up what the moral of the story was to her, "Get married." I heard her, but I was thinking the moral of the story was, "Damn, isnt' it weird how hot George Clooney's calves are? And, doesn't he look like an older Joshua Jackson." Maybe I missed something. Nah.
I watched an episode of Degrassi Junior High tonight. Spoiler Alert! (that looks so dumb) It's the episode where Joey Jeremiah gets beat up by a Dwayne. Scooter (tiny little nerdy kid with cheezies) then tells Dwayne, "You are a bully." Scooter offers Joey Jeremiah his cheezies instead of Dwayne. Okay, so it sounds dorky. Fuck you. But what I am wondering if I misunderstood the moral of this episode (see above, I suck at moral of the story shit). From what I understand the moral is: If you get beat up nerdy kids will give you free cheezies. Somehow though, I don't think that's what they were going for. But, I sure do love cheezies.
Once, about 8 months ago, I made out with a friend of mine on his pool table. I know, I used to be fun. Anyhow, today he messaged me on facebook to let me know he found my earring from that night in his house. This is how he wrote it, "found your erring from that nite. red white." I don't really remember that earring. But, I talked to him anyway. He had, "5 beeeerrs" before he found me online. He asked me when I am coming home, and then we plotted an evening. Apparently, when I go home I am going to his house to sit naked in his hot tub, drinking Mai Tai's out of real coconuts, watching The Lost Boys, and listening to Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again." Then he wrote "penis." Gee, I can't wait to go home and see what my earring looks like.
Also,
Dear Daylight Savings Time (you fucking dickweed),
Give me my friggin hour back so I can watch 2 more episodes of shitty Canadian TV from the 80s and paint my toenails before going to bed.
Love, Emily
Tip of the Day: Eating a plate of shitty pasta never helps.
-Canadian Castaway
Sunday, March 14, 2010
3 AM, Silent Store Lady, Drugz Fetching and Bells, Bus Multi-Tasking, Comma On, Coincidences?
Day 199
So it is now 3 am and I can't really remember what happened today. All I know is that I watched a ton of TV, reading sucks, I ate lemon dill-flavored hummus, and my bodyguard is online and I want to chat with him but won't. I have gmail chatted with him so much lately that I realized that he showers a lot. Apparently, it is inappropriate to realize how much someone showers unless you live with them. He lives next door.
I was supposed to spend today by myself, in my room, with books and TV. This I did, but I did venture out several times. The first time was to get oranges and a prescription filled. The getting of oranges wasn't all that exciting except that I realized one thing about the store clerk. She never says one word to me, ever. No greeting or "Goodbye." These things can go somewhat unnoticed, but when your backpack is resting on the fruit scale and she wants it to be moved and she just points, you realize that she will not speak to you. I don't know how I feel about this. I imagine that this is her game that she gets her jollies from. I imagine that she lives her life with a calendar filled with how many words she said all day to customers, and that there are gold stars on the days that say 'O.' I imagine there aren't many days without gold stars, but this fact doesn't dull the joy she gets from sticking them proudly to each '0' day.
The prescription I had filled was less exciting. It pretty much involved me waiting for a pharmacist. There was a bell on the counter but I couldn't bring myself to ring it. So, I stood there unnoticed and frustrated and wanting to be the type of person who rings the bell and knowing I could be that person, but not doing it. Finally, he came over. He quoted me on the price for the drug. When I came back, after it was filled, he told me that the drug was actually like 14 bucks more than before. Then I wished I was the type of person who threw bells at people in white jackets, but I took my drugs, thanked him and left.
The second time I went out today was to meet a friend for coffee. While waiting for the bus I tried not to stare at this couple who were making out in the bus shelter. When the bus finally came the couple sat in a seat facing forward and I sat directly behind them in a seat facing to the side. I leaned against the sheet of plexiglass that divided us. We rode on with their heads bouncing on the glass which in turn, bounced on my arm. I felt so close to them it was borderline erotic. It may have been full blown erotic had the couple not separated to check their phones and send text messages every 2 minutes. If I am ever the girl making out with the guy dressed in flannel with sexy broad shoulders on the bus and he dared check his phone while we were making out, he wouldn't have a phone anymore. He would have tiny little pieces.
While at the coffeeshop I confided to my friend that I don't really like reading some of my classmates work. She told me that most of the time she didn't bother reading any of it. This made me feel better. Then we talked about comments that people write on our own pieces. I told her that one of our fellow students is always getting after me about comments. She told me that she already knew how he felt about my comma usage. I asked how she knew and she said he had bitched about it to her. Then, I felt worse. Now, after I write about it I am feeling better again. He must have a super boring life to spend time talking about how I use commas. But, me talking to my friend about his bitchiness about commas and writing it on my blog, makes me have even less of a life in a way. Now, I feel worse.
Yesterday my friend told me that she didn't believe in coincidences. She said that everything happens for a reason. Tonight I was tooling around facebook to see that a South African friend of mine had posted lyrics to a song on her facebook wall. I googled the lyrics to find that the writer/performer of them was from a town only 20 miles from my hometown. Did I mention she is the person who lives directly above me? She has probably been up their playing music from my home state and not even knowing it. Now, is this coincidence or fate? Or is it just inconsequential?
Tip of the Day: Fart on the bus sometimes. It's fun.
-Canadian Castaway
So it is now 3 am and I can't really remember what happened today. All I know is that I watched a ton of TV, reading sucks, I ate lemon dill-flavored hummus, and my bodyguard is online and I want to chat with him but won't. I have gmail chatted with him so much lately that I realized that he showers a lot. Apparently, it is inappropriate to realize how much someone showers unless you live with them. He lives next door.
I was supposed to spend today by myself, in my room, with books and TV. This I did, but I did venture out several times. The first time was to get oranges and a prescription filled. The getting of oranges wasn't all that exciting except that I realized one thing about the store clerk. She never says one word to me, ever. No greeting or "Goodbye." These things can go somewhat unnoticed, but when your backpack is resting on the fruit scale and she wants it to be moved and she just points, you realize that she will not speak to you. I don't know how I feel about this. I imagine that this is her game that she gets her jollies from. I imagine that she lives her life with a calendar filled with how many words she said all day to customers, and that there are gold stars on the days that say 'O.' I imagine there aren't many days without gold stars, but this fact doesn't dull the joy she gets from sticking them proudly to each '0' day.
The prescription I had filled was less exciting. It pretty much involved me waiting for a pharmacist. There was a bell on the counter but I couldn't bring myself to ring it. So, I stood there unnoticed and frustrated and wanting to be the type of person who rings the bell and knowing I could be that person, but not doing it. Finally, he came over. He quoted me on the price for the drug. When I came back, after it was filled, he told me that the drug was actually like 14 bucks more than before. Then I wished I was the type of person who threw bells at people in white jackets, but I took my drugs, thanked him and left.
The second time I went out today was to meet a friend for coffee. While waiting for the bus I tried not to stare at this couple who were making out in the bus shelter. When the bus finally came the couple sat in a seat facing forward and I sat directly behind them in a seat facing to the side. I leaned against the sheet of plexiglass that divided us. We rode on with their heads bouncing on the glass which in turn, bounced on my arm. I felt so close to them it was borderline erotic. It may have been full blown erotic had the couple not separated to check their phones and send text messages every 2 minutes. If I am ever the girl making out with the guy dressed in flannel with sexy broad shoulders on the bus and he dared check his phone while we were making out, he wouldn't have a phone anymore. He would have tiny little pieces.
While at the coffeeshop I confided to my friend that I don't really like reading some of my classmates work. She told me that most of the time she didn't bother reading any of it. This made me feel better. Then we talked about comments that people write on our own pieces. I told her that one of our fellow students is always getting after me about comments. She told me that she already knew how he felt about my comma usage. I asked how she knew and she said he had bitched about it to her. Then, I felt worse. Now, after I write about it I am feeling better again. He must have a super boring life to spend time talking about how I use commas. But, me talking to my friend about his bitchiness about commas and writing it on my blog, makes me have even less of a life in a way. Now, I feel worse.
Yesterday my friend told me that she didn't believe in coincidences. She said that everything happens for a reason. Tonight I was tooling around facebook to see that a South African friend of mine had posted lyrics to a song on her facebook wall. I googled the lyrics to find that the writer/performer of them was from a town only 20 miles from my hometown. Did I mention she is the person who lives directly above me? She has probably been up their playing music from my home state and not even knowing it. Now, is this coincidence or fate? Or is it just inconsequential?
Tip of the Day: Fart on the bus sometimes. It's fun.
-Canadian Castaway
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Letter Writing, Letter Public Reading, Frenchman and Commerce, Fucking Birthday Nightmare, Ohh Greyhound
Day 198
Today I woke up and wrote a cover letter. This wasn't some sort of normal cover letter. This was a cover/love/personal history/politics essay-type of letter. The letter was to the guy from the videostore that I want to work at. I detailed how I pretty much never want to do anything but watch movies and how working there could put my knowledge to use and thus, make me into a superhero by saving the world. Oh, and I begged for a job and shamelessly tossed around 'I love you's,' but whatever. When I finally finished it, I had my bodyguard proofread it, and I went to the videostore to present it.
When I arrived at the videostore the manager/Canadian moviestar (sort of) was behind the counter helping people. I waited and while I waited I noticed that the videostore was much cooler than I initially had thought because it has that fat lady cooking show. Finally, I went up to the counter, thinking I'd just hand it to him and walk away. "I wrote you a letter," I said. He took it from me and smiled. I told him to enjoy it. He started to read it aloud. I ducked out, embarrassed. He finally stopped, and told me he'd call me next week. He also noted that there were a lot of applicants, and my heart broke a little. Then we talked about tactics for cleaning VCR heads, and I left. I am not really sure what any of this means, all I know is that it happened.
After my videostore debacle I ran into the same friend I ran into yesterday. She and I hauled ass to a local French cafe. Inside this cafe we found a gray, curly-haired Frenchman, meringues, and kitschy overpriced gift crap. Immediately, I was drawn to the gift crap. I pulled out a scarf and some woman came from behind the counter to show me ways of tying it. The Frenchman and his friend both agreed I looked nice in the orange/turquoise scarf. When the Frenchman found out that I was American he told me that American's keep the world alive because they buy everything. He also told me that the French do many things better than the U.S., things like freedom. I called my mother to tell her how American I was for spending 25 bucks on what should be a 5 dollar scarf. She told me not to worry she had just spent well over 200 bucks shopping. Thanks, Mom.
So, tonight was my friend's birthday. Three of my fellow grad students popped by the bar to pick me up for the party. We rode the bus for well over an hour. For fun we cast everyone we knew in the roles of Disney film characters. I was Mrs. Potts. The night never got better than when we were on the bus and I was Mrs. Potts. Anyway, the party changes location while we are on the way to it and everyone on the bus felt like they were gonna throw up. This was when I should've gotten off the bus to watch Degrassi back at home. We finally got to where we are supposed to be and there was nowhere to sit. This was yet another reminder that Degrassi would be more fun.
Then, the birthday boy, who we referred to as, 'that stupid birthday boy,' decided to change location once again. We end up at some club that wants to look cool so they made me and my friend stand outside. This was another opportunity to skip out and watch Degrassi. We got in, and I had to unexpectedly pay for my friend. I looked around and saw that this club was only half full. And, they were playing horrible music, and I had no idea how to get home.
My friend decided to walk me to a bus stop. We searched around for 10 minutes walking by a guy who was facedown and cuffed on the pavement. My friend tried to reassure me that she'd be alright on her way back to the club alone. "It's okay--it's good, the cops are already here, nothing is going to go down." We finally made it to what turns out to be the train station with the help of 3 random guys that I talked to along the way. I didn't know what train to get on. So, I hopped on one and addressed the 8 strangers aboard to ask if they know which way the train is going. Finally, after taking the train, and waiting outside for the bus in the rain, I was on my way home and confident in where I was. Then I cried a little and thought I was crazy. Then, I walked 8 blocks down dark streets in the rain having to pee. Sometimes I should really just trust my instinct to watch Degrassi alone in my room.
I just watched a vlogbrothers video in which Hank adopts/fosters a retired racing greyhound. He said that there are tons of racing greyhounds that retire and need good homes. How sad is that? The fucking dog works alongside a trainer and then spends it's life racing only to be cast aside homeless to die. I used to think these dogs were weird, fucking freak dogs, but now I just think they are sad cases that I want to adopt and put in my tiny room and hug. They are quite small so I am guessing I could hug at least 7 at a time..
Tip of the Day: Always bring a map with a detailed escape route.
-Canadian Castaway
Today I woke up and wrote a cover letter. This wasn't some sort of normal cover letter. This was a cover/love/personal history/politics essay-type of letter. The letter was to the guy from the videostore that I want to work at. I detailed how I pretty much never want to do anything but watch movies and how working there could put my knowledge to use and thus, make me into a superhero by saving the world. Oh, and I begged for a job and shamelessly tossed around 'I love you's,' but whatever. When I finally finished it, I had my bodyguard proofread it, and I went to the videostore to present it.
When I arrived at the videostore the manager/Canadian moviestar (sort of) was behind the counter helping people. I waited and while I waited I noticed that the videostore was much cooler than I initially had thought because it has that fat lady cooking show. Finally, I went up to the counter, thinking I'd just hand it to him and walk away. "I wrote you a letter," I said. He took it from me and smiled. I told him to enjoy it. He started to read it aloud. I ducked out, embarrassed. He finally stopped, and told me he'd call me next week. He also noted that there were a lot of applicants, and my heart broke a little. Then we talked about tactics for cleaning VCR heads, and I left. I am not really sure what any of this means, all I know is that it happened.
After my videostore debacle I ran into the same friend I ran into yesterday. She and I hauled ass to a local French cafe. Inside this cafe we found a gray, curly-haired Frenchman, meringues, and kitschy overpriced gift crap. Immediately, I was drawn to the gift crap. I pulled out a scarf and some woman came from behind the counter to show me ways of tying it. The Frenchman and his friend both agreed I looked nice in the orange/turquoise scarf. When the Frenchman found out that I was American he told me that American's keep the world alive because they buy everything. He also told me that the French do many things better than the U.S., things like freedom. I called my mother to tell her how American I was for spending 25 bucks on what should be a 5 dollar scarf. She told me not to worry she had just spent well over 200 bucks shopping. Thanks, Mom.
So, tonight was my friend's birthday. Three of my fellow grad students popped by the bar to pick me up for the party. We rode the bus for well over an hour. For fun we cast everyone we knew in the roles of Disney film characters. I was Mrs. Potts. The night never got better than when we were on the bus and I was Mrs. Potts. Anyway, the party changes location while we are on the way to it and everyone on the bus felt like they were gonna throw up. This was when I should've gotten off the bus to watch Degrassi back at home. We finally got to where we are supposed to be and there was nowhere to sit. This was yet another reminder that Degrassi would be more fun.
Then, the birthday boy, who we referred to as, 'that stupid birthday boy,' decided to change location once again. We end up at some club that wants to look cool so they made me and my friend stand outside. This was another opportunity to skip out and watch Degrassi. We got in, and I had to unexpectedly pay for my friend. I looked around and saw that this club was only half full. And, they were playing horrible music, and I had no idea how to get home.
My friend decided to walk me to a bus stop. We searched around for 10 minutes walking by a guy who was facedown and cuffed on the pavement. My friend tried to reassure me that she'd be alright on her way back to the club alone. "It's okay--it's good, the cops are already here, nothing is going to go down." We finally made it to what turns out to be the train station with the help of 3 random guys that I talked to along the way. I didn't know what train to get on. So, I hopped on one and addressed the 8 strangers aboard to ask if they know which way the train is going. Finally, after taking the train, and waiting outside for the bus in the rain, I was on my way home and confident in where I was. Then I cried a little and thought I was crazy. Then, I walked 8 blocks down dark streets in the rain having to pee. Sometimes I should really just trust my instinct to watch Degrassi alone in my room.
I just watched a vlogbrothers video in which Hank adopts/fosters a retired racing greyhound. He said that there are tons of racing greyhounds that retire and need good homes. How sad is that? The fucking dog works alongside a trainer and then spends it's life racing only to be cast aside homeless to die. I used to think these dogs were weird, fucking freak dogs, but now I just think they are sad cases that I want to adopt and put in my tiny room and hug. They are quite small so I am guessing I could hug at least 7 at a time..
Tip of the Day: Always bring a map with a detailed escape route.
-Canadian Castaway
Friday, March 12, 2010
Old Lover, Help Wanted, I Didn't Hang Up, Math Sucks, Yellow Guy
Day 197
This morning I fell in love...with my old laptop. Apparently, if you use Vista (now known as, motherfucking Vista) there is often a glitch that will prevent you from creating PDF documents in Final Draft screenwriting software. I know, it's like the end of the world. Anyway, I pulled out my 6 year old laptop that looks like an overgrown primitive toy and turned it on for the first time in 7 months. Not only did it fire up and had pleasant-looking fonts, it made a PDF for me. I was so happy, I kissed it's cookie-crumbed surface of it. Then, I felt like a dirty whore, not for kissing my scuzzy computer, but for replacing it with a spiffy new one. But, this is further proof that a real lover will stick around long after you push them away, and replace them.
I had to drag myself to the videostore today to turn in some late-fee accruing rentals. I promised myself that I wouldn't rent anymore. I came home with 5 more. Anyway, when I was there I started talking to the Canadian actor who works there. He told me all about the history of Degrassi Junior High for a half an hour. He even came out from behind the desk to point out other shows from Canada. Btw, he's shorter than me. When he was getting my DVDs I inquired about the help wanted sign on the door. He told me that they need someone to work Saturday and Sunday nights and that he was manager and that he is doing the interviewing. He also noted that this is the first time they have hired a possible stranger. Remember that scene in Wayne's World where that security guard gives them all of that information? That is what it felt like.
But, I do not have a permit to hold down a job outside of the University in this country. Fucking Canada. I was really starting to love this joint. I told the videostore man my situation. As I rode the bus home I had a thought. After I exited the bus I pulled out my cellphone. Whether it was magic, or fate, or the fact that I never keep track of when movies are due, I'll never know, but I had the number in my speed dial. I paused and imagined myself dialing and then hanging up when he answered. I dialed. I didn't hang up.
I probably should've hung up. Instead I told him who I was and that I am available to work this weekend if he was in a bind and that I would figure out all the shit about work permits later. Then if that wasn't bad enough, I was like, "You know, maybe I'll just shoot you a copy of my resume through email." Yeah, I said, "shoot you an email." Holy shit. He informed me that they do nothing via email because they are "slackers." I then said something I either can't remember or have blocked out. Gee, I wonder if I'll get the job or if I'll be able to show my face in their long enough to return the 5 videos I have in my bag. Shit, I what am I gonna when I need more Degrassi?
Today I remembered why I hate math, and why I love reading. Reading gives you ideas and imaginary friends and makes you feel smart. Math makes you an enraged idiot. The worst part is knowing people who understand math and who are not assholes. They will make it their life's ambition to teach you a concept when you clearly don't get it and you start to make I'm-going-to-choke-you hands near their neck. When you are ready to squeeze their windpipe they say, "I just really want you to understand it so you have some piece of mind and know that everything is going to be okay." Aww sweet, I do fall for that. But, it would be so much easier to be around a know-it-all asshat who thinks he is too above me to explain it all. The trick with that tactic is that I would still get mad, but I would at least be determined to understand just out of fuck you-ness. Shit, I can't win. I need math.
Tonight I was working a private party and there was a guy there who kept bringing everyone's glasses up to the bar. He laid it on thick with how wonderful I am and even made the annoying guy who actually wanted me to dance for my tips go away. He told me that I should be paid more, and that I was his favorite bartender of all time. Maybe if I would've cut him off in time I could've put up a missed connection on craigslist saying, "You: Guy who worshipped me. Me: Bartender at private party. Please come back and worship me again, but ditch the yellow tie/yellow shirt together combo."
Tip of the Day: Tell your co-worker you never talk to that you have a crush on someone you both work with, not just to get it off your chest, but to here him say in response, "I have a crush on him too."
-Canadian Castaway
This morning I fell in love...with my old laptop. Apparently, if you use Vista (now known as, motherfucking Vista) there is often a glitch that will prevent you from creating PDF documents in Final Draft screenwriting software. I know, it's like the end of the world. Anyway, I pulled out my 6 year old laptop that looks like an overgrown primitive toy and turned it on for the first time in 7 months. Not only did it fire up and had pleasant-looking fonts, it made a PDF for me. I was so happy, I kissed it's cookie-crumbed surface of it. Then, I felt like a dirty whore, not for kissing my scuzzy computer, but for replacing it with a spiffy new one. But, this is further proof that a real lover will stick around long after you push them away, and replace them.
I had to drag myself to the videostore today to turn in some late-fee accruing rentals. I promised myself that I wouldn't rent anymore. I came home with 5 more. Anyway, when I was there I started talking to the Canadian actor who works there. He told me all about the history of Degrassi Junior High for a half an hour. He even came out from behind the desk to point out other shows from Canada. Btw, he's shorter than me. When he was getting my DVDs I inquired about the help wanted sign on the door. He told me that they need someone to work Saturday and Sunday nights and that he was manager and that he is doing the interviewing. He also noted that this is the first time they have hired a possible stranger. Remember that scene in Wayne's World where that security guard gives them all of that information? That is what it felt like.
But, I do not have a permit to hold down a job outside of the University in this country. Fucking Canada. I was really starting to love this joint. I told the videostore man my situation. As I rode the bus home I had a thought. After I exited the bus I pulled out my cellphone. Whether it was magic, or fate, or the fact that I never keep track of when movies are due, I'll never know, but I had the number in my speed dial. I paused and imagined myself dialing and then hanging up when he answered. I dialed. I didn't hang up.
I probably should've hung up. Instead I told him who I was and that I am available to work this weekend if he was in a bind and that I would figure out all the shit about work permits later. Then if that wasn't bad enough, I was like, "You know, maybe I'll just shoot you a copy of my resume through email." Yeah, I said, "shoot you an email." Holy shit. He informed me that they do nothing via email because they are "slackers." I then said something I either can't remember or have blocked out. Gee, I wonder if I'll get the job or if I'll be able to show my face in their long enough to return the 5 videos I have in my bag. Shit, I what am I gonna when I need more Degrassi?
Today I remembered why I hate math, and why I love reading. Reading gives you ideas and imaginary friends and makes you feel smart. Math makes you an enraged idiot. The worst part is knowing people who understand math and who are not assholes. They will make it their life's ambition to teach you a concept when you clearly don't get it and you start to make I'm-going-to-choke-you hands near their neck. When you are ready to squeeze their windpipe they say, "I just really want you to understand it so you have some piece of mind and know that everything is going to be okay." Aww sweet, I do fall for that. But, it would be so much easier to be around a know-it-all asshat who thinks he is too above me to explain it all. The trick with that tactic is that I would still get mad, but I would at least be determined to understand just out of fuck you-ness. Shit, I can't win. I need math.
Tonight I was working a private party and there was a guy there who kept bringing everyone's glasses up to the bar. He laid it on thick with how wonderful I am and even made the annoying guy who actually wanted me to dance for my tips go away. He told me that I should be paid more, and that I was his favorite bartender of all time. Maybe if I would've cut him off in time I could've put up a missed connection on craigslist saying, "You: Guy who worshipped me. Me: Bartender at private party. Please come back and worship me again, but ditch the yellow tie/yellow shirt together combo."
Tip of the Day: Tell your co-worker you never talk to that you have a crush on someone you both work with, not just to get it off your chest, but to here him say in response, "I have a crush on him too."
-Canadian Castaway
Thursday, March 11, 2010
HELL is Working a Double and Not Being Able to Commit a Double Homicide
Day 196
There is not much to say that isn't just a string of curse words. I will say that working a double shift is just as bad as working a double shift in the States. I am so hateful right now, I can't find words to blog with, so here are just a few things that happened, and I will sweet talk someone into video chatting with me to get all the curse words out:
When I was setting up the bar I pulled a table all the way across it the bar floor. My co-worker started to point and laugh. The table I had pulled left four continuous scuff marks all the way along the bar. Immediately, I started to imagine myself telling lies to the two managers that were seemingly omnipresent. I was going to tell them that it happened the night before or just pretend like I couldn't talk, or faint. The managers kept making circles around the area the entire day and I felt like a naughty kid. Then I remembered what it was like to feel like a naughty kid and wanted them to keep almost noticing it. They didn't. But, at the end of this horrible day I was glad that I marked up the floor and a little sad I didn't set the tables on fire. I think they might have noticed that, and I think I wouldn't lie if they asked me, "Emily, did you burn down the building?" "Yep, sure fucking did." Then I would wait a second and say, "Beeotch."
There was a couple with matching giant glasses that came in for lunch. The same couple also came in for dinner. When I brought them their supper plates I said, "Say, weren't you two in here for lunch?" They gave me a goofy look and mumbled, "Yes." "I was too," I said. The seemingly jolly couple didn't have anything to say. Apparently, if you sit in a bar all day and the person that works there points it out your not so jolly anymore.
I overheard one cook telling the other cook that she had just broken up with this guy because he refused to change his facebook status from "Single" to "It's Complicated." She said that when people asked him if he was dating her he told them, "Not really." She then said, "There is a big difference from 'Not really' dating someone and 'kind of' dating someone, a big difference." She said that the guy told her, "Of course I care about you. Would I spend 40 minutes going down on you if I didn't care?" This girl later told me that she is studying Psychology so that one day she can become a "matchmaker." Hopefully, no one asks to see references of her success thus far.
The best part of the day though was when there was a penny on the ground and one of our drunken regulars looked over at it, pointed, and said sincerely, "Is that a penny on the floor, or a piece of pepperoni?"
Other than all of that the night ended in a breakdown that involved me crying in a dirty stairway and a security guard telling me, "You need to focus on the positive of this situation." Luckily, my bodyguard responded to my weepy texts, walked in the pouring rain, hugged me, told me I was okay, and took my glass of rum away. Does Hallmark make thank you cards to give to bodyguards that become knights in drenched corduroy armor? They should, they'd get five bucks out of me, more if it were one of those fancy pop-up or musical cards.
Tip of the Day: Work jobs that you hate so that you remember why you are working so hard to get out of them, and then somehow, get out of them.
-Canadian Castaway
There is not much to say that isn't just a string of curse words. I will say that working a double shift is just as bad as working a double shift in the States. I am so hateful right now, I can't find words to blog with, so here are just a few things that happened, and I will sweet talk someone into video chatting with me to get all the curse words out:
When I was setting up the bar I pulled a table all the way across it the bar floor. My co-worker started to point and laugh. The table I had pulled left four continuous scuff marks all the way along the bar. Immediately, I started to imagine myself telling lies to the two managers that were seemingly omnipresent. I was going to tell them that it happened the night before or just pretend like I couldn't talk, or faint. The managers kept making circles around the area the entire day and I felt like a naughty kid. Then I remembered what it was like to feel like a naughty kid and wanted them to keep almost noticing it. They didn't. But, at the end of this horrible day I was glad that I marked up the floor and a little sad I didn't set the tables on fire. I think they might have noticed that, and I think I wouldn't lie if they asked me, "Emily, did you burn down the building?" "Yep, sure fucking did." Then I would wait a second and say, "Beeotch."
There was a couple with matching giant glasses that came in for lunch. The same couple also came in for dinner. When I brought them their supper plates I said, "Say, weren't you two in here for lunch?" They gave me a goofy look and mumbled, "Yes." "I was too," I said. The seemingly jolly couple didn't have anything to say. Apparently, if you sit in a bar all day and the person that works there points it out your not so jolly anymore.
I overheard one cook telling the other cook that she had just broken up with this guy because he refused to change his facebook status from "Single" to "It's Complicated." She said that when people asked him if he was dating her he told them, "Not really." She then said, "There is a big difference from 'Not really' dating someone and 'kind of' dating someone, a big difference." She said that the guy told her, "Of course I care about you. Would I spend 40 minutes going down on you if I didn't care?" This girl later told me that she is studying Psychology so that one day she can become a "matchmaker." Hopefully, no one asks to see references of her success thus far.
The best part of the day though was when there was a penny on the ground and one of our drunken regulars looked over at it, pointed, and said sincerely, "Is that a penny on the floor, or a piece of pepperoni?"
Other than all of that the night ended in a breakdown that involved me crying in a dirty stairway and a security guard telling me, "You need to focus on the positive of this situation." Luckily, my bodyguard responded to my weepy texts, walked in the pouring rain, hugged me, told me I was okay, and took my glass of rum away. Does Hallmark make thank you cards to give to bodyguards that become knights in drenched corduroy armor? They should, they'd get five bucks out of me, more if it were one of those fancy pop-up or musical cards.
Tip of the Day: Work jobs that you hate so that you remember why you are working so hard to get out of them, and then somehow, get out of them.
-Canadian Castaway
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Breakfast Friends, French Degree, Brown Bag, Classy, Schnitzel Virgin and Other Adventures
Day 195
I learned something at the breakfast table today. I learned that if you say you don't have any friends in a group of people at least one of them will volunteer to be your friend. But, it'll probably be the guy who talks over you and gives lectures about Jesus at the dinner table. But, if you turn your life over to Jesus and never say anything when your new friend is talking you will have a friend for life. But, I'd rather make friends on World of Warcraft.
My dad is a hick. This used to be troublesome and cause fights, now I find his bombastic ignorance endearing and wonderful. This mornings exhibit via our telephone conversation went like this:
"So, what's your friend got his bachelor's degree in?"
"I think, Philosophy and French, Dad."
"French?!"
"Yeah?"
"What the hell kind of degree is French? What's he gonna do with that two-bit degree? Become a part of the French Foreign Legion? A degree in French, ha!"
Note: He said nothing of the Philosophy degree.
Today I went to what is called a "brown bag" meeting. I had no idea what it was all about. Later, I spent over half an hour with a girl I had just met typing up the mission statement, position descriptions, and budget for a new student advocacy group where I may become the lead chair person. All of that happened and yet, I didn't even get a brown bag lunch. I would rather have taken whatever was in a brown bag over typing up positions and figuring out salaries.
There were two amazing things that happened in class today. 1. I ate soy nuts. They are fucking awful, but I am addicted. Well, mostly addicted to the way I bitch about them while choking them down. But today was special, my professor also ate the soy nuts, just like we were all kids at the lunch table. He said, "I think they are pretty good." 2. My friend, let's call him Hank, told me that he was allergic to soy nuts. So I said, "Does this mean we can't make out." He said, "Not until you brush your teeth." I asked, "What day is it?" "Ahh, Tuesday. Why?" "Because I only brush my teeth on Thursdays." "Then we could make out all weekend," he said. I chuckled. Then he said, "I've been practicing." That was when things got weird. He started working his mouth in circles, vigorously and sticking out and pulling in his tongue. I don't think I want to make out with him, but I can see how his mouth lessons could come in handy elsewhere and I could still eat soy nuts and not have to brush my teeth.
Today I went to a German going away party at a German restaurant. Here's a few things that happened:
1. I discovered that schnitzel is amazing and makes me regret ever having been a vegetarian. When I decided to become a vegetarian I knew I probably wouldn't be one forever. I never imagined that I would spend so much time after coming out of it hating myself for all of the meat I didn't eat. I can't think of many things that are better than a huge slab of breaded pork at least my religion permits the eating of it, or I'd have to renounce my religion to eat delicious little pigs. Plus, I would feel guilty for not having been a vegetariang plus, I would feel guilty for a life time spent without the joys of pork.
2. I asked the guy I like if he thinks there is a specific age when men start tucking in their shirts and we spent the next 1/2 hour looking at strange men's waistlines. Conclusion: Old men tuck in their shirt, always. Younger men tuck in their shirts, if they are nerds, always. Guy I like is cute, always.
3. Old people playing games never, ever want me to join in the fun. Seriously, how do I prove myself to them? Do I really have to learn how to play some odd Swiss game or Whist? I am willing to learn. Wouldn't it be fun to teach a young person a new game? Can they sense my unnatural addiction to all things old person?
4. I learned that running around in circles around a tall Norwegian man is tons of fun while waiting for the bus.
5. I learned that no matter how long you wait after eating a giant plate of schnitzel, getting a McFlurry afterwards will make you feel like a fat ass. Try not to talk about how much creamier the ice cream is, because no matter how delicious it is you are still killing yourself and it won't make you feel better. It's just like people talking about the quality of their cigarettes or scotch, you can't really put a classification on taste other than, "It tastes like slow, delicious (or horrid) death." But, when you see ice cream on your pants, turn to your friend and say, "I put my hand in my lap and there was a puddle there," you realize it's all worth it.
5. On the walk home embrace the fact that you have a little extra love areas by teaching your English as a Third Language friend the word gunt. In case you should be unaware of the term gunt it means the area on some bigger ladies that is a gut a top a cunt (gut+cunt=gunt). You know, the area where your McFlurries go to die.
Tip of the Day: Never question the mushroom sauce.
-Canadian Castaway
I learned something at the breakfast table today. I learned that if you say you don't have any friends in a group of people at least one of them will volunteer to be your friend. But, it'll probably be the guy who talks over you and gives lectures about Jesus at the dinner table. But, if you turn your life over to Jesus and never say anything when your new friend is talking you will have a friend for life. But, I'd rather make friends on World of Warcraft.
My dad is a hick. This used to be troublesome and cause fights, now I find his bombastic ignorance endearing and wonderful. This mornings exhibit via our telephone conversation went like this:
"So, what's your friend got his bachelor's degree in?"
"I think, Philosophy and French, Dad."
"French?!"
"Yeah?"
"What the hell kind of degree is French? What's he gonna do with that two-bit degree? Become a part of the French Foreign Legion? A degree in French, ha!"
Note: He said nothing of the Philosophy degree.
Today I went to what is called a "brown bag" meeting. I had no idea what it was all about. Later, I spent over half an hour with a girl I had just met typing up the mission statement, position descriptions, and budget for a new student advocacy group where I may become the lead chair person. All of that happened and yet, I didn't even get a brown bag lunch. I would rather have taken whatever was in a brown bag over typing up positions and figuring out salaries.
There were two amazing things that happened in class today. 1. I ate soy nuts. They are fucking awful, but I am addicted. Well, mostly addicted to the way I bitch about them while choking them down. But today was special, my professor also ate the soy nuts, just like we were all kids at the lunch table. He said, "I think they are pretty good." 2. My friend, let's call him Hank, told me that he was allergic to soy nuts. So I said, "Does this mean we can't make out." He said, "Not until you brush your teeth." I asked, "What day is it?" "Ahh, Tuesday. Why?" "Because I only brush my teeth on Thursdays." "Then we could make out all weekend," he said. I chuckled. Then he said, "I've been practicing." That was when things got weird. He started working his mouth in circles, vigorously and sticking out and pulling in his tongue. I don't think I want to make out with him, but I can see how his mouth lessons could come in handy elsewhere and I could still eat soy nuts and not have to brush my teeth.
Today I went to a German going away party at a German restaurant. Here's a few things that happened:
1. I discovered that schnitzel is amazing and makes me regret ever having been a vegetarian. When I decided to become a vegetarian I knew I probably wouldn't be one forever. I never imagined that I would spend so much time after coming out of it hating myself for all of the meat I didn't eat. I can't think of many things that are better than a huge slab of breaded pork at least my religion permits the eating of it, or I'd have to renounce my religion to eat delicious little pigs. Plus, I would feel guilty for not having been a vegetariang plus, I would feel guilty for a life time spent without the joys of pork.
2. I asked the guy I like if he thinks there is a specific age when men start tucking in their shirts and we spent the next 1/2 hour looking at strange men's waistlines. Conclusion: Old men tuck in their shirt, always. Younger men tuck in their shirts, if they are nerds, always. Guy I like is cute, always.
3. Old people playing games never, ever want me to join in the fun. Seriously, how do I prove myself to them? Do I really have to learn how to play some odd Swiss game or Whist? I am willing to learn. Wouldn't it be fun to teach a young person a new game? Can they sense my unnatural addiction to all things old person?
4. I learned that running around in circles around a tall Norwegian man is tons of fun while waiting for the bus.
5. I learned that no matter how long you wait after eating a giant plate of schnitzel, getting a McFlurry afterwards will make you feel like a fat ass. Try not to talk about how much creamier the ice cream is, because no matter how delicious it is you are still killing yourself and it won't make you feel better. It's just like people talking about the quality of their cigarettes or scotch, you can't really put a classification on taste other than, "It tastes like slow, delicious (or horrid) death." But, when you see ice cream on your pants, turn to your friend and say, "I put my hand in my lap and there was a puddle there," you realize it's all worth it.
5. On the walk home embrace the fact that you have a little extra love areas by teaching your English as a Third Language friend the word gunt. In case you should be unaware of the term gunt it means the area on some bigger ladies that is a gut a top a cunt (gut+cunt=gunt). You know, the area where your McFlurries go to die.
Tip of the Day: Never question the mushroom sauce.
-Canadian Castaway
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