Iris Eggwhites: Knowitall By Trade

Eventually We All Cave

2009-03-25T11:41:00.000-07:00

Well! That was a grumpy one, that last one, wasn't it?

I did something I've railed against for a really long time. I joined twitter. Shoot me.

But I did it because of Christopher Walken. Because his comments are literary, genuinely funny, written in full-sentenced English and impart little wisdoms and observations that may not be life changing or relevant, but are thought provoking, extraordinary and totally indicative of a man with brains and character.

I would love to live up to that. I find I often write well in short burts, even though twitter's bursts are a little TOO short. I don't like word limits.

The rest of twitter, I have found so far, is a total waste of time and way too much information. WTMI ,if you will. I don't really care what little banal thing everyone is doing at every given second of the day. I do care about unique observations and an awareness of the world around that translates into entertaining comraderie.

Dig?

Anyway, it's here if you dig.

Fuck.

2009-03-05T13:52:00.001-08:00

Fuck you.

I just wrote an awesome entry and fucking blogger decided to autosave and the same second that I hit publish post so it cranked and I lost it all because I didn't write it in Word first.

You motherfuckers.

I'm so pissed off.

This is part of why I fucking stopped writing online the last time.

Onlineland

2009-01-08T12:48:00.001-08:00

We are in strange country.

The world of 'blogging' (and for the record, I despite the word) is an imaginary world. It is comprised of scads of people who are close through words and photos only. They are friends because they read each other's lives like a tabloid, like celebrity gossip, particularly with the blogs that are extremely popular.

The bloggers that have hundreds of readers are superstars, and all the other bloggers want to be friends with them, if only they could just catch their attention with a witty comment and a link back to their own journal.

Along with the friendship, though, comes drama. There is no inflection on the internet, there is no way to truly know in what context something was meant unless you've heard the words from someone's mouth after. Maybe with the invention of Skype, this sort of thing will be possible. But before the words are heard, offence is often taken, and that's that. Feud.

I used to be a daily diary-ist on Diaryland. From 2001-2007 I wrote pretty much per diem, nay, multiperdiem, about my troubles with men (boys), my crummy self esteem, how much I hated my job and my life, and all the things I wasn't doing.

But after six years I realized why I wasn't doing them. I was too busy thinking about them and writing about them. That diary got me in trouble with people in the real world more times than I can count and caused me no end of suffering and pain, despite all the support I got from my 50+ readers. So I quit it. Now I write on occasion when something strikes me that I want to talk about or find interesting, or a weird dream I had, which is totally boring to read about.

But it's addictive, I know. It feels good to have your mind out there on the internet, existing for others to read at a whim. It makes you real, substantial. Like the ephemeral fog in your brain is now a solid, existing thing. It's proof.

Look! I am real! I have real thoughts!

But it isn't real, and that's the rub. No matter how much you try to make it real, it isn't, even if the friends you make become real when you meet them, finally. People only see one or two facets of each other in a blog, and people are so so so many facets. It's like dating on the internet. Real people are never what they seem like in their profiles.

(Just to say though: I got lucky. I found the one good one on the internet! Ok maybe Sara found the other one...)

Oh - I just wanted to say the song I'm listening to is kind of appropriate:

"Who wants to live forever? Who wants to live forever?" - Queen.

I guess existing on the internet is another way to live forever, no? Once data is placed in the, as one fellow thought, bunch of tubes connected together, it's there forever, until someone deletes it. And if no-one deletes it, you are immortal.

This is becoming disjointed because I'm distracted by other stuff in my apartment, like cleaning, Queen and lunch, so I'm going to quit while I'm ahead. But keep in mind, what you're reading isn't real. It isn't me.

It's just a piece of me clearing fog and striving for clarity.

I am aware of the irony.

Happy Thursday.

How I Spent My Holiday

2009-01-02T12:13:00.000-08:00

*Eating

*Walking around in the snow periodically sticking my leg into deep drifts cuz it's fun.

*Walking to Main Street to eat or get things to eat because my car was trapped in the garage because if I tried to drive it out of the garage I'd get stuck in the snow in the lane.

*Watching people get stuck in the snow in the lane. I saw: several large trucks; my building manager in his Mustang twice, once after honking like a dick at a truck that was stuck and blocking the lane (instant karma RULES); a minivan that gave up and was left in the middle of the lane; a fan full of family members (not mine); assorted sedans that chose to try to turn around in the intersection of the lane and 17th; one or two SUVS that thought they were bad-ass but were schooled proper; me on one occasion where I also tried to get fancy so that I wouldn't be stuck - I got out after about 15 minutes.

*Showing off my mad Yorkshire Pudding making skillz.

*Reading Dlisted religiously.

*Eating.

*Watching entire seasons of Star Trek TNG. Stop laughing you asshole.

*Failing at baking cookies. FAIL.

*Enjoying our new fuzzy Yoda blanket that Santa brought us for Christmas.

*Avoiding the dishes. Sorry David, baby I love you. :)

*Did I mention eating yet? We basically ate straight from the 23rd until yesterday. Yesterday was supposed to be the first day back to normal but we were 'forced' to eat delicious buttermilk waffles with butter and syrup and berries, and then we were 'coerced' into scarfing a bag of Tostitos and Crack-Cheese. What's Crack-Cheese you ask? You don't want to ask. Oh you do? I warned you. It's that jar of cheese-whiz and salsa mix crap. It's disgusting, but you eat ONE chip and you're effed. It's death in a jar and it's deeeeeeeeeelicious. Don't say I didn't warn your ass. It's now almost 1:00pm on the 2nd and I'm afraid to eat, in case I decide my holiday isn't over yet (which it isn't, but my stomach doesn't know that).

*Telling my cats to shut the fuck up because the catnip toy that I made them for Christmas is making them act like junkies who've run out of junk. They've been sucker punching each other and running around like idiots, hanging from their scratching post and my leg, falling off the bed or the tops of chairs and getting up on the counter and other such shenanigans. There's gotta be a smackdown up in here because this is ridiculous. Damn cats.

*Getting funny phone calls from my mum. Some favourites: On New Years Eve, she called me at 12:08 am and hollered "Happy Birthday!!" into the phone. She's a lightweight. Also, telling me that vision is 20/20 (hindsight is 20/20), and when her adorable friend called me back right after and said, "I was trying to call Mexico; how did I get you??"

*Oh yeah, and eating.

I have about 10 days left of my holiday, and really, I have no idea what I'm going to do for it except maybe eat a lot and get bored. I was supposed to go on holiday to either the DR or New York, but I had to save my money because we might be moving in April. Which is good but I'm all choked and pouty because I am now on a staycation.

LAME!!

Happy New Year, kids! Much love and I hope you stick to all your New Year's Resolutions for at least a week!!

Idea Stealer

2008-12-15T22:25:00.000-08:00

I'm stealing an idea from Gus Greeper . I'm going to keep a viewable list of media I've experienced, or on less fancy-worded terms, a list of books I've read and movies I've seen. Maybe some music too.

Perhaps a review or two may be in the cards as well, depending on how proactive I might be on any given lazy afternoon. See sidebar and fun will ensue.

Useless

2008-12-04T17:40:00.001-08:00

When someone dies, I feel totally helpless and useless. I don't know what to say, how to behave, what to do, how to act. It's awkward and awful. I want to help, but there's nothing I can do at all because all they want is that person back. Can't do it.

It's not the helplessness that I find most upsetting. It's the uselessness. It's the feeling that I am doing nothing by being there. That I might just be in the way while people who had something to do with the deceased are doing their thing.

Sure, I could make food for them. A casserole, bring it over, Thank You, Don't Mention It, and then don't mention it.

How did we end up so solemn? The puritans? The great show of sadness that began with monarchs and trailed down to us? Didn't we celebrate death back when we were apes? Neanderthal certainly buried his dead with garlands and other notions. That seems pretty festive. No black suits and frowns going on. That was just the way his forehead looked.

And all this fuss over earthly remains. The leftover matter when the spirit, energy, consciousness, electricity or whatever one things vacates a dead person, well, vacates. What was it, 21 grams? I don't think they ever figured out what that was. Gas maybe.

Uselessness is an active failure. It's not that I didn't try, it's that I tried and failed, because there was no use for what I could offer.

I'm sure this comes across as rather one sided and self centred and that I should focus on what the surviving family are feeling, but I know what they're feeling and so do they and so do you, reader. There are numerous books on the subject. Perhaps you've experienced it. I know I have. But there's not a lot of literature out there on how to be a useful side-liner when someone you're not close to dies, yet you're close enough to the survivors to be involved. It's a weird limbo between help the living or let live and let alone, at least until asked for.

Maybe that's the trick. Don't try, just offer the time and attention and help and then bugger off and wait to be asked. And once I am asked, I can then display how utterly useless I am at tuna surprise casseroles.

Buncha A-holes.

2008-11-05T13:56:00.000-08:00

How can Americans be so forward thinking and so backward all on the same damn day? They vote in Obama, the first black president, a democrat, and super young, relatively inexperienced. He's a total step outside the box for our simple neighbours, which is GREAT. I'm pleased it wasn't a blood bath. I know the popular vote was very close, which indicates that the US is still so TOTALLY a divided country, and are involved in a constant tug of war with themselves, but the electoral college numbers were vastly different, and something like SIX states jumped ship from a red state to a blue state. That says something. Florida voted blue. FLORIDA.

Anyway, that's great. We have a new era finally in the way the US will conduct itself.

What sucks, then, is that on the same day, practically, California votes yes on Prop 8 and takes back the right for gays to marry. WTF????????? Who the fuck? You gave them the right. You can't just take it away again.

Make up your fucking minds, people. I wish that the Federal Government would just make it a civil right, make it an equality issue and agree that gays can fucking marry, and be done with it. DONE with it. And don't take it away again. If you can do that, then what else can you do?

What if, one day, the government decided that they didn't want women voting anymore. Well, we agreed you could vote back in 1918, but we changed are minds and we're going to ask people whether they agree to that. Ok bad example because I think there are more women than men and we'll just vote the vote for ourselves... but you get what I mean. A decision is in favour of the happiness and well being of a major portion of your citizenship, and then some asshole who thinks it affects him (even though it totally doesn't) proposes the right be taken away again, and a bunch of other assholes (who aren't affected either) agree.

If you're making decisions with regards to law based on a Christian basis, then you are no longer a secular government and are no better than the GD Ayatollah. Right?

I guess the people have spoken. Even though the vote on Prop 8 was, again, heavily divided - something like 51% to 48%. It's so close, it's obscene, and it's also very clear that as many people think it's a good thing as don't. That should say something about the issue.

Oh, and THANK YOU Canada for not being assholes. At least not on this subject, anyway. We may be bland and lackluster, even going as far as to say we don't care about much, but the good news is that we don't care who marries who either, cuz it makes no difference to our own relationships. Hurrah!

Dream-O-Rama

2008-08-25T08:28:00.000-07:00

I dreamed that my grandmother wasn't dead - only MOSTLY dead, and that she was on the slab but talking to me, although still dead. Very disturbing.

There was a plane my mother and I were trying to catch, flying to somewhere in the States, and we were arriving at the airport JUST in time, and then we realized that I had forgotten my passport. My mother said that was fine, I didn't need it, and I disagreed but she wouldn't drive is to my place to get it. So when we got to the massive airport full of doors and stairwells, the booking-in girl wouldn't let me go on the plane, which was leaving in five minute. She then proceeded to try and make me a fake staff pass, which was totally illegal but she figured she could do it, but she couldn't find anyone's photo ID that looked like me and it didn't work out. The plane left without us.

Then we were on a tiny little one-palm-tree island with a little girl. She wished for a city below the sea and a tiny one-block city appeared. I thought it was too small so I wished for facilities the size of two city blocks and that appeared. The little girl went down to live there but I was too afraid to put my face in the water.

Eventually I did, and the two city blocks had grown exponentially by the time I was brave enough. I went down to see if I could find the little girl. I did, and she was living in a wet, furniture-less room in which she did experiments with wax.

Then it became a video game, dark and not unlike DIABLO II. THere were marching munchkin candy demons and a swirl of light that stabbed people as it went along. Zombies and ground monsters.

All of this, in the dream, I believe flowed seamlessly together like a movie, and totally made sense at the time. As usual.

Very weird.

Say Hi to Grandpa and Aaron.

2008-06-25T07:49:00.000-07:00

Bye gramma. I miss you already.

Love Arianna.

The Best Word I Have Ever Played

2008-06-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

The K was already there. My opponent, Mike, had played GOSH on the CASK. It was a good play. I've been lucky this game. I got a bingo with TILLITES so it's been hard for MW to catch up to me. But this clinched it for me as the best game in a long time.

Great location, luck of the letters, BRILLIANTLY silly word. It was a 43 pointer. What more could one ask for in a Scrabs game? Love.

Afraid of Success

2008-06-11T07:45:00.000-07:00

I’m supposed to make a phone call. It’s just one little phone call involving me picking up the phone and dialing. And then someone will hear that phone ringing and will answer it. And that’s when I’ll have to bowl them over.

I’m not afraid of talking to strangers. On many an occasion my companions have wished that I was, rather than collecting a following of crazies and other such hangers on. I’ve always had the knack. It’s even easier on the phone because nobody is looking at you while you stammer out words they may or may not want to hear. Faceless voice, little to no consequence. It’s so much easier to be mean to telemarketers than the slow kid at Wal-Mart.

I know that I’m good at what I do, and that’s not the question. The question, really, is whether or not they’ll think I’m good at what I do. Isn’t that a rub and a half? So making the phone call becomes, “I’ll make it next week, once I’ve done a rewrite,” and then, “maybe this resembles something else that someone else has written, so I better research that,” to “who was I going to phone last month?”

I’m new at this. I have a decent body of work, mostly adaptations. Adaptations of my own work, adaptations of other people’s work, one of which I don’t have permission for (but I’m going to get it, as soon as they see how good it is), and a few ideas I’ve had noodling around in my head waiting for the page. Now all I need is an ego big enough to pick up the receiver and mash those keys.

This starts out like a story about a writer, and nobody likes to see a writer write about how they can’t write, but this isn’t one of those stories. This is a story about a writer who can write, who does write, who loves to write, but can’t bring herself to get other people to read it.

A Little Something to Think About

2008-06-09T21:58:00.000-07:00

***This Post is from August 07, but I'm putting it here because I'm deleting the othter blog it's in. That's all.

I had a gross moment yesterday. I rode my bike to work, which was actually a training session downtown at the BCIT campus.

It rained.

I don’t have a mudguard.

When I arrived at work, not only was my ass wet, but it was gritty. There was grit on my ass. This means several things, one being that I’m an idiot for not having a mudguard in a city that rains as much as this one. But that’s not the big deal, really. We already know I’m an idiot for innumerable other reasons. The big deal is what I took with me.

There was matter on my person that used to be on the road. Things die on the road, like birds, squirrels and rats. People pee in the gutters, like hobos and drunks. There’s a lot of garbage on the road, like old slurpee drippings and cigarette butts, especially right now during this charming little city strikey-poo. There’s oil on the road, probably more prevalent during a rain when it has been dry for so long; the oil is lifted by the water.

I sat through work in those jeans, had dinner at Sanafir, beers and a movie with a friend, and THEN rode home. I spent 14 hours with that stuff on my butt.

I just wanted to mention that

Move With Deliberate-ness.

2008-06-09T21:32:00.000-07:00

I am aware that deliberate-ness is not necessarily a word, but it's my blog and therefore my own dictionary.

I went to a particularly opening, relaxing, releasing yoga class this evening at 8. Some people don't like to go at night because it perks them up too much, but night is when the doldrums get me, and I tend to binge, to feel bad, to feel tight and sore and guilty and disappointed in myself.

It's the perfect time for me to go to a place where I'm totally forgiven for everything, where my body is not a hindrance, and I remember to breathe.

I had this notion after I left class. I hurt myself a lot. I bang into things, I knock my hands, knees, head, knuckles, feet, shins and every other outward body part on everything and anything I walk past. And it hurts. I move carelessly, stubbing my toe, bending back my fingernails, scratching myself.

Instead, something I can learn from yoga is to move with deliberate-ness. To move with my breath, not just when I'm at yoga, but all day, all the time. To move more slowly and be totally aware of the space within which I am moving. So I don't bang myself into things.

Now that's fuckin' ninja, man.

Berfday.

2008-06-09T09:22:00.001-07:00

It's my birthday. I'm 32 as of 6am, which has already happened. I don't feel old, I don't look old, and obviously, I am not old. 32 is not old.

I could pull my mum's math, which is to reverse the two numbers if they're in the lower range of the decade. That makes me 23.

It also changes my gay math ratio. I'm not allowed to date anyone younger than half my age plus 7. So that makes 23. Wow. The same number. It's also that creepy number in Robert Anton Wilson's old, dead psyche. 23. 5. Numerology gone insane.

Lucky for me, I'm in a relationship, and he's 31. He's well in range of the gay math.

Ramblings aside, I am going to go have a fabulous breakfast, I'm going to buy shelves at Ikea and then I'm buying SHOES.

I love shoes. I love my berfday. Guiltless for 24 hours. Or maybe 23.

Meditation on the Purpose of Being Born of Good Folks into This World

2008-06-07T16:38:00.000-07:00

Having children is serious. People need to make a choice that fits what they want out of life. So many people don't make that decision and end up with kids that cramp their lifestyle and the result is unhappy, messed up kids.

Anyway, I have a response to the oft heard comment of "why would I want to bring kids into THIS world?"

My response is this: To Make it Better. There are so many jackasses and two-bit no goods having kids, genetic wastelands, drunks, assholes, jerks, narcissists, racists and violent MTFCKERS having kids, that more than anything, I want all the great, wonderful, kind, thoughtful, intelligent, consciencous, sensible, aware people I know to have babies to counterbalance the babies bred by the former list of miscreants.

The latter list of people who make living life good need to have children and raise them to also make living life good, to make a difference, to bring love and understanding, to teach tolerance and peace, to foster common sense and inter-dependence, to pass on a legacy of education, unselfishness and all the other great things about the great people I know. Because the rednecks are still breeding. Because the more the rednecks breed and the less the non-rednecks breed, the more the balance shifts towards humans being 100% retarded jackass idiots.

Good people (who want kids) need to have them or the human race is doomed!!!

Idea

2008-06-01T19:38:00.000-07:00

I'm going to eventually write a humour book based on the trials and tribulations of those fortunate enough to work in the ticketing industry.

I just wanted to get that down in writing so I don't forget.

That's all.

Oh, I also dreamt that I was naked in the Bloedel Conservatory, which was mortifying because there were loads of people in there and I was trying to hide.

It still smelled REALLY good in there, though.

Dreams x2

2008-05-10T17:10:00.000-07:00

1. My car was stolen and I was freaking out, and somehow I managed to get the phone number of the guy who stole my car. I called it and got his voicemail, and on the voicemail it said something like, "If you have called this number, I have stolen your car" and then he proceeded to tell me how and why he stole my car.

So I left him a message that said, "I need my car, I'm a student, I drive from work to school to work to home and I'm broke and can't afford a new one. You can't steal my car, it's my car blah blah blah" and then I realized I was sitting behind the wheel of my own car calling this guy.

2. I was with a huge crew of people and we were all dressed up like redneck slut trash and we were drinking. We climbed to the top of a mountain, then, and slid down the whole thing on cardboard box lids. I remember getting too much air on one roller because the cardboard box lid was so light and had a lot of lift, and I panicked and thought, "fuck this is going to hurt when I land", trying to sail far enough not to land in front of or on top of a roller, jamming myself and breaking all my bones. I sailed over the next roller, though, and landed on the downslope of the third one, sparing me ole bones. Kept going down the hill on the cardboard box lid til I got to the bottom.

Dreamtown.

2008-04-25T08:45:00.000-07:00

Dream #1 - I was in school and there were eight of us in a classroom. We were planning a trip of some kind with an instructor and now that it's morning, I can't remember how, but Shirley gave me a reason to leave the room and I was not happy about it. I had to leave and I was angry, but the next day we found out that all seven of the people in the room died of a heart attack all at the same time.

So whatever Shirley said to me to make me leave the room saved my life because something happened in there that caused all of them to have instant heart attacks. When I was in the room being explained all of this, for some reason I was drawn to the vent next to where everyone was sitting. I thought of something supernatural.

Dream #2 - There was a team of excavators and they went into the desert to study some ruins that were apparently cursed and everything excavated there was in perfect condition. They were a little ways below the surface when the whole thing shuddered and they were all buried under several thousand pounds of sand. It took us all two days to dig them out, and they should have been dead, suffocated and crushed, but they weren't. Whatever magic was in the temple area kept them alive, and when we dug them up we accidentally dismembered parts of them, like hands and things. But they were all still alive.

One magic killed everyone, another magic made them live.

Floodgate

2008-04-21T23:07:00.001-07:00

It's kind of weird when you are gogogo all the time, and then you take a moment one day to stop gogogoing and suddenly you realize how much emotion you've ignored for such a long time.

Stay or Go?

2008-04-21T15:55:00.000-07:00

How do you decide when it's time to leave?

I have worked at this job for eight years now, and I still, due to the way the union has us set up, only make $12 an hour. That, I feel, is obscene. There are no rewards for longevity at this job other than the flexibility and casual nature of the place.

Here's where the reasoning begins to fall apart. Now, it is not flexible. There are not enough staff to cover all the shifts, so if you have a change in your schedule, as is bound to happen since one cannot really survive on this job alone, you are fucked and you're stuck with your shift. Also, since someone stole some money, the casual nature of the job has now flown out the window. Now, we have to have someone watch us count the float, watch us count the deposit, watch us put the deposit into the safe, and then sign to confirm they watched us do it. If you're a minute late, you're marked with an L and enough of them garners a writing-up in the presence of the human resources manager.

Honestly, if you want people to care this much about this job, pay us more. If you want quality people, pay them more. If you want people to be bondable for the money on their shift, hire accountant types, bonded already, and pay them more.

I get that perhaps they want to tighten up the ship, and that's all very valid, but when you tighten up the ship on people who have been working at the place for a very long time, and particularly when they're doing a good job, those people are going to feel displaced, no longer comfortable in the job and wanting out, hence, you lose all your good people, the ones that weren't stealing to begin with.

So here's my question. I've been here so long, I sort-of need the money, I like the free tickets, so it seems rash and foolish to quit, but in the same breath, I now hate coming to work.

Is it really and truly time to go?

Lookin' Good Naked.

2008-03-04T22:57:00.000-08:00

I've just watched two episodes back to back of "How to Look Good Naked".

The one thing I've noticed, consistently, is the way these women light up when they're told that yes, they are beautiful. And what kicks me in the guts is how little they've heard it up until this week on the show. Their eyes light up, they look at the host with big, gorgeous, hopeful eyes, and they say, "really?"

It's incredible.

It made me really happy to see these women realize that they're not the hideous monsters they thought they were. And all it took was someone to pay attention to them, and validate that they really were worthy of affection and admiration.

Our culture has cultivated such a climate of total self hate and loathing that these women, including myself at times, can't even bear to look at themselves in a mirror. And it's not even a reality. It's photoshop and surgery and undergarments and starvation. There have been so many words written on this subject, and I'm sure there are plenty more to be written, but I think it's time we started cultivating what's beautiful about women rather than what is beautiful about altered photographs of women.

Then maybe we'll stop worshiping idiots in this society. Cuz seriously, there are way too many "hot" chicks around that are dumb as a post, wasting our air!

Yo.

Poor Johnny Arbuckle. He's better off without his cat.

2008-03-02T10:34:00.000-08:00

This is brilliant.

It's John Arbuckle, from Garfield, without Garfield. It's sad, existential, as the author suggests: schizophrenice, lonely, and WAY funnier.

Garfield Sans Garfield

A wee taste:

God of allisfairinloveand War

2008-02-26T14:52:00.000-08:00

I found this poem in my old blog, and I did a re-edit and posted it here.

Convince you?

I don't need to convince you.
I am worthy of laurels and utter devotion.
There should be trumpets,
when I enter a room.
And hands should reach to lift me
into my temple where I belong.
Mouths should savour the formation of my name.
Bodies should tremble, aching to press against me,
but fearing that I am too glorious
to part from
ever again.
Eyes should burn with desire to look upon me.
Tormented fingers should quiver to lift me
up from the dirty ground (that my feet never touch)
and safely into a chariot in the sky
My heavenly body should be paraded
where all can see the glory
that is me.

Convince you?
Convince me.

You like? I think I will rewrite it again. It needs more violence, more sex, more gods, more lightning.

Ok Ok, just ONE more, and that's it.

2008-02-26T13:31:00.001-08:00

When your dreams are telling you what you should already know.

2008-02-26T10:29:00.000-08:00

I had a dream the other night in which this chick was being kind of obnoxious and I was getting all bent out of shape over it.

She turned to me and said, "Why do you let it bother you? Just let it go and forget about it."

Truer words my subconscious has never spoken.

Chimps never get boring.

2008-02-25T18:56:00.001-08:00

The Session

2008-02-25T16:12:00.001-08:00

Let's talk about how you feel. How do you feel?

I feel like I'm all in limbo, like I don't know what's going on on the other side of the trench and it's either war or resolution and I don't know which it is.

Describe this trench you mentioned.

Argument. Disagreement. Frustration. Disappointment. Fear.

Fear. Tell me about the fear.

I put up an excellent front. I'm always afraid. Even when things are going well, really well, exceptionally well. I'm afraid it's wrong. Maybe the wrong choice was made. Maybe the future isn't going to be good. Maybe bigger hurts are coming later. Maybe I don't know the whole story and there are things being kept from me that are making things harder than they should be.

I see. What about the disappointment?

I have so much belief. People have so much potential. I see the ability for greatness, the shedding of shells, not apologizing for taking up space in the world. There's confidence in oneself, which is really all that matters but when you want your life to intersect with other lives, then there is more than just yourself. There are other egos, other needs, other desires, and they want to know you just as much as you want to know them.

Do you feel like perhaps this trench is a barrier?

It is. It's a manifestation of an underlying battle that has lain in wait since the beginning. Someone started digging it and it gets a little longer and a little deeper and a little wider every time someone picks up the shovel.

Can you cross it? Fill it in?

I would like to try.

Is there blame involved?

There is no blame. There is worry. There is illness. There is selfishness and self preservation. One of us is shutting down and the other one is gearing up and someone is going to get too far ahead or too far behind to hang on to the thread.

What is the thread?

Love.

That's nice. Does the thread match the fabric?

No. But it makes for a nice contrast.

Solution to Windex

2008-02-10T16:10:00.001-08:00

I have a solution to the question of the dirty futuristic city-encasing glass dome.

You could have a scene where the main character...

...disillusioned with the hive-like life of what he once thought was a well-oiled utopian machine, sits on a futuristic bench while all the other hive-drones bustle by doing the single, solitary job they are scheduled and sanctioned to do, looking at the sky just beyond the encasing glass. The glass is filthy, dirty, streaked, and he cannot see the blue sky outside, but rather a filtered, obstructed, refracted image of what he longs to see. Then, in his peripheral, he sees it. A small, blade like robot connected to the ground level outside the glass, begins to move upward.

In a motion like the lane-cleaners in fabled 21st century bowling alleys, the bot slides up the outside surface of the filthy glass, spraying grime-dissolving futuristic cleaner before its path, leaving a perfect, shining lane of glass behind it.

He then realizes that all his life, he has been cut off from reality and that his vision of the glorious imperfection of the outside world that he thought the dome protected him from is simply real life, reality, nature, independent, a priori, and that his own perception of that reality has been scrubbled clean for him by the sterile technology of the dome and its philosophies.

He wants to feel the dirt. He wants to wipe a small streak in it with his finger, to touch it himself, to smell it, to wipe it on his own perfectly white clothes. He wants to get out.

Windex people, windex.

2008-02-09T18:09:00.000-08:00

I have a question.

In all those futuristic, utopian novels that are set in wondrous technological cities encased in massive glass domes,

Who windexes the outside?

This is something I think is NOT too banal or beneath any particular author to disclose. Tell me, oh creative fictionists, how doth thy hermetically sealed glass remaineth so clean?

I have worked in customer service type jobs for a very long time now. Probably altogether 17 years, beginning with a job in an ice cream shop in West Van when I was 15 years old. I am now 32, nearly, and I have to say that I am very very tired of being treated the way people treat customer service employees.

If a show is sold out, it means that I have no more tickets to sell you. It doesn't mean that I am lying to you to spite you, or to ruin your life. There might be wheelchair seats on hold, or house seats, but those are held for a reason. They're held for mobility issues, unexpected situations and are at the discretion of front of house. They are not for me to sell. If they were for me to sell, I would have sold them already. So when you come to my window and you ask me for tickets and I tell you they're sold out, that means they are sold out. It means that all the people who have tickets to this show bought them before you did. Especially if it is the day of the show. If you have children in this show, do not leave it until the last day to buy your tickets because other people will buy them before you. Do not yell at me and tell me my "customer service really sucks". I cannot pull tickets out of my ass.

Honestly, why am I still working in this kind of job? I'm far too smart for this nonsense despite the pay at this place being actually very good. The theatre industry can be a lot of fun... oops, gotta go.

Why I eyes ya.

2008-02-05T14:46:00.000-08:00

I still find this very very funny. Someone told me about it last night and I remembered and ended up laughing myself to tears in the bar.

Oh Long Johnson

It's Important

2008-02-05T14:44:00.000-08:00

If you're a Democrat in the states, I think you should vote for Hillary. And then when she runs for president, I think you should all vote for Hillary.

I see it in her face.

She is the next president.

Language is not always words.

2008-02-05T13:59:00.000-08:00

I wanted to share a really great quote from an interview with Marjane Satrapi, the Iranian author and illustrator of the graphic novel and now animated film, "Persepolis". She is a funny, personable, highly intelligent person and well worth reading up on.

In my opinion, the following quote is absolutely right:

"For me, drawing is just the first language of human beings. Actually, before writing, people, you know, human beings, they were drawing. So, it’s something extremely direct. The relationship that you have with drawing, you don’t have it with nothing. Even you don’t have it with a photograph, because a photo is the reality, when the drawing is the way as a human being sees the reality and transcribes it again. So, it’s closer even to the human being."

Read the Full Interview: Capone Interviews Marjane Satrapi - of the brilliant Academy Award Nominated Best Animated Film -- PERSEPOLIS!!!

My Life as Someone Else's

2008-01-08T14:05:00.000-08:00

I think I ended up with someone else's life this year.

My life is full of stress. I work too much, trying to pay for school, and whatever other time I have is spent doing homework and maybe sleeping, if I'm lucky. There's some eating in there too, well, there has to be because I gained another ten pounds somehow.

But this life, the one I'm living at the moment? I have all this free time that I almost don't know what to do with (I say almost because I seem to have no real problem filling my free time with things like video games and reading Harry Potter).

My upcoming schoolwork seems to be just the right amount on my plate.

I have time to work out. I have time to go to yoga. I have time to spend with my amazing boyfriend whom I love more and more every day.

This isn't my life! My life doesn't go this way! I wonder who is this very moment at work suffering under the pressure of too much to do there, while also doing pages and pages of homework at the same time, dreading going home because there's more homework there, feeling exhausted and huge because they've had no time to get any form of exercise, lonely, wishing for some kind of romantic companionship, when they are supposed to be having the life I'm getting to live right now.

Basically, this is all a very silly way for me to say that things are looking up for me. Actually, they HAVE looked up, and I am now in that spot I used to look up at from way down below, feeling like I deserved more. I did, I do, and I earned it.

And so did, do, earned, YOU.

Happy New Year you guys. It's going to be a very very good one.

Pet Cave Man

2008-01-04T17:24:00.000-08:00

Wow, it's been a while. I have heaps to catch up on, and I promise I will do that coming up soon.

School starts on January 7th, which means I'll need plenty of diversion.

In the meantime, I'm addicted to this game called Human Age, where you have a pet caveman and you try to make him evolve.

I could use a few kneecaps (caveman money) so here's a link, and if you join, make sure you said that I sent you. My character's name is evaneggwhites, and the email addy I used is oddestfish at gmail dot com.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Virtual human development game

www.human-age.com

Ruthless Predator

2007-10-25T15:49:00.000-07:00

A Little Beef on a Tuesday

2007-10-23T16:26:00.001-07:00

This, at first, enraged me.

I thought, "What the eff do you know? You don't know me and what I find beautiful. You don't know me and why I love whom I love."

The reasons are clear why I felt that way; just read his post. He contradicts himself like crazy. He just illustrated, in his tirade against women being superficial, how superficial he is as a man, finding a woman's attraction only in her appearance. The irony is KILLING ME.

After thinking about it, I realized, here is a guy who shoots high. Here is a guy who wants the beautiful girlfriend and he didn't get her. He couldn't get her because he shoots for girls who are so beautiful that their value increases to men, and they know it. So they can choose to date the "Successful" men that this fellow is so clearly envious of.

What about a girl who doesn't "sit in a chair" beautifully? What about the girl who has frizzy hair that doesn't fall around her shoulder in a way that this fellow might find attractive?

Men and women do what they need to do. Men, if this fellow is right, spend their lives trying to make an attractive nest for a woman. What he neglected to mention, which is a major part of North American culture, is that women spend their lives trying to remain as beautiful as possible so that a man will want to make that nest for her. Not to mention let her stay in it after she's old and saggy.

But all of that is a world of bullshit superficialism in which this guy clearly lives. Nowhere did he make mention of the way a woman can argue a point or describe something amazing she saw. He didn't note any attraction to the way a woman can give birth to a child, go to work and raise that child and keep house and balance family time spent without going totally insane. All he's attracted to is a laugh and a smile.

He clearly doesn't know many woman. Or at least good women. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know that I love the way Mr. Green looks when he's sleeping; all sweet and gentle like a five year old. Or that I relish the little transition points between his shoulders and his neck, or where his lower back slopes into his bum. Or that all the hair on his body is soft like a cat's, or that when I met him, I hoped he was a nose-nuzzler because I liked his nose (and he is). Not to mention his small hands that are small like mine, or his amazing, arresting, wide, greeniebrowniebeatencopper eyes.

Yes. It's nice to know that someone you value is valued by other people too. It serves to reinforce that you're not crazy for loving someone. Sometimes it's helpful to get other people's opinons on your partner, for example, my mother's psychopathic, compulsive liar husband that nobody liked except her. If she had listened to us, she wouldn't have had to watch him point a gun at himself and then at her, and then at himself again. Or she wouldn't have been pushed down the stairs. Get my drift?

Whatever your reasons for wanting someone, if those reasons are not the same as their reasons for wanting you, you'll probably have trouble and the relationship will fail. But if your reasons are similar, be they superficial or other, I think you can make it work. In fact, I hope there are enough superficial people out there to date the other superficial people so that all the great, wonderful, thoughtful, sensitive, romantic, intelligent people are left for the rest of us.

That includes you, superficial whining man. Why don't you examine yourself and your argument a little further, examine the types of women you seem to think represent all of womankind, and examine a little more closely just what it is you think makes you different from them, and you'll see exactly where the trouble lies.

Whack.

2007-10-13T09:05:00.000-07:00

Last night, at Mr. Green's house, I slept on the opposite side of the bed from where I usually sleep. He sorta made me, because he climbed over and curled up on my side. Shake it up a little, right?

Anyway, this morning, when the alarm went off, I reached over to where I usually slap the alarm clock, and slapped. Except there was no alarm clock there. It was Mr. Green's face.

That's what he gets for making me sleep on the other side of the bed.

Hobos Need Tickets Too

2007-10-11T10:48:00.000-07:00

So you know how if you don't pay your fare when you get on the bus at the back door, and the transit cops get on and catch you, then you have to pay $140 in fines?

So what happens then, when a hobo gets on the bus and says, "I jes wun get ofr t'brdge, ain't got munny, lemme onna bus" and the bus driver lets him on without paying the fare, and then the transit cops get on the bus and find he doesn't have proof of payment? Does he get a $140 ticket? What's up with that? Why can they get away with not paying and we can't? I suppose to give a man with no home and no money a fine is ridiculous, since a) he can't pay it, and b) you'll never find him to follow up. I suppose I'm bent because a friend of mine got a fine for shirking fare.

Another question then! What if you get on the FRONT of the B-line and you pay your $2.25, and you don't want a transfer because you're not transfering and you don't want to waste the paper? Then you have no PROOF of payment save the bus driver who saw you pay, except there's no way he's going to recognize you because he sees a billion people every day, particularly on the B-line?

Madness. Why haven't they run the skytrain out to UBC yet? That would be ultimately awesome. I suppose there's nowhere to build it, though. It would uglify the West Side and all the rich folks' properties would depreciate and people would lobby against it.

Ok so I'm just talking nonsense.

Give hobos tickets! Just for fun. And to fill your quota.

Stuff I Think About Sometimes and Chuckle

2007-10-05T23:09:00.001-07:00

Don't you just love the idea that when someone says something stupid, all the old philosophers: Kant, Aristotle, St. Thomas Aquinas, Hume, Nietzsche, Plato, Russell, Locke, Hobbes, Kirkegaard and a whole bunch of old guys with beards, all groan, slap their foreheads and turn over in their graves?

That cracks me up, man.

(*ohhh god, that's sooo STUpid! grooooaaaaaan.)

Off the Record

2007-10-05T22:34:00.001-07:00

Consider this woman, nearly thirty.
She hates her hair.
She likes shoes with a good two to three inche heel.

Consider this woman, thirty in body, twenty in mind.
She's doing things she should have done ten years ago, but was too busy at the time ,being twenty, to do them.
She likes men that are twenty.

Consider this woman in her early thirties.
She doesn't feel like it, really. She forgot, the other day.
Is forgetting a sign of staying young or getting old?
Bet nobody knows.

Consider this woman.
You don't know how old she is.
You don't know where she's been.
You don't know how tall she is.
You don't know why she doesn't like her hair.
Or why she does, after all, at least today.
You don't know any of the boys who loved her,
and she probably doesn't either.
You don't know about the stacks of books
that she wrote things in since she was eight.
Or I guess you do, now.

Off the record,
Off the record,

Consider this woman, thirty-two.
She has tiny hands for a grown up.
She's got the hands of an eight-year-old.
They say you can tell a woman's age by her hands,
and she hopes that's true,
she hopes that's true.

Little Fronds of Lovin'

2007-10-02T22:18:00.001-07:00

It makes me exceedingly happy when I find a moulted whisker. I don't know why. I just pulled back the covers on my bed and found one stiff white cat whisker. I'm not sure if it's Norbert's or Oliver's, but judging by the slight curve to it, I'd say Oliver's. His curl up like a villain-mustache. Like Super Mario. Like the Pringles man.

On second thought, it's Norbert's.

I love their darling little whiskers. They're so smooth and stuff. I feel like I want to save them when I find them. Like throwing them out would be throwing out a piece of them (yes I know, they threw it out first).

Maybe I'll tape it up next to the first silver hair I found that had fallen off my own head. I forget where I found it. On some of my clothes? I taped it to the glass by my desk. Maybe I'll start a whisker collection.

That's how OCD crazies get started, isn't it...

Mother Teresa vs. the Asshats

2007-09-18T14:12:00.000-07:00

I heard that Mother Teresa, in her diaries, which have recently been brought to light, had serious difficulties with her faith and beliefs.

Some news stories on the matter:
The Telegraph
BBC

An asshat discussing the philisophical invalidity of her possible canonization from a theologically/biblically academic point of view:
Asshat

Frankly, from an agnostic's point of view, any god that would accept some random asshat Christian into heaven over Mother Teresa on the simple basis of 100% faith in Jesus etc. is an asshat god clearly lacking in the common sense he or she gave mankind.

Perhaps if god is an asshat, god would prefer to be surrounded by other asshats. Birds of a feather...?

I prefer to think that if there is a god, defined by the divinity with which humans hope for, he or she would see into the heart of Mother Teresa and know how she struggled. MT clearly began with faith. Perhaps she constantly wished for it to come back to her. Her diaries describe her fears regarding that loss and the repercussions the loss might have on her afterlife, if there was an afterlife at all?

I've had this argument before with someone. If the Christian idea of God is a pouty, whiny, conceited deity intent on only rewarding those that worship and love him without fail because he is grand and all-wonderful, then where's the goodness? What is there to strive for? Where is the example of what humankind should be like? It isn't there.

I prefer the example of a deity that understands the difficulty placed on a woman like Mother Teresa. She worked in one of the poorest, most disgusting, most bereft places on earth. I can completely understand that one's faith in anything good would be shaken, let alone faith in a being that is supposed to care about us.

I take serious issue with the fast-food quality of Christianity. All you gotta do is believe. Then you get to go to heaven. That old woman, despite her difficulty believing in god after witnessing the suffering in Calcutta, still busted her ass in that dismal place helping people any way she knew how. My mother's asshat ex-husband, however, believes that since he has 100%, unwaveringly, accepted that Jesus Christ has paid for our sins with his death, he has a free ticket into heaven no matter what asshattery he gets up to in his life. And he definitely engages in serious asshattery. He lied about being in Vietnam - and I mean he told us he was there, and that he shot children and was proud of it. Later we found out that he, in fact, was not in the Vietnam war. He has never been outside North America. He emotionally abused my mother for five years. He cheated on her. He lied.

That man, according to the bible, is guaranteed a place in god's court, and Mother Teresa is not.

Anyone else think that's kinda dumb?

Nonsense, really.

2007-09-18T12:56:00.000-07:00

Mornin' yall.

Week three of school. I've torn myself inside out trying to figure out what classes I want to take. I was so gung ho the first two years of my degree, but then when I got my Associate of Arts and transferred to UBC, my gung-honess has become somewhat reduced.

As it always is with too much choice in front of me, I'd much rather curl up into a ball and sleep. Stress makes me snoozy. Choices are like this: school? film career? family? real job?, or latin? swedish? no fourth course at all?.

I'd rather sleep for a thousand years than make a decision. Pretty lame. Instead, I picked something, plunged myself into it and now I wonder if I should regret my choice or what. It's a wonder I get myself fed and clothed in the mornings. Actually, half the time I can't even do that, going through seven or eight different outfit choices in one go, leaving a pile of clothes in my wake that will undoubtedly stay on the floor for about a week until I wash them again, even though they were clean to begin with, but since they've been lying on the floor they've amassed a certain volume of cat hair that simply cannot be ignored.

Sometimes, instead of cleaning the house, I'd rather just move. Ever wanted to throw away everything you have and start from scratch? Like a hobo that's won the lottery? Would anyone like to buy a couple of large Ikea Pax wardrobe units? They take up too much space. I want them gone, I think. $250 for both, or $100 for the narrow one and $200 for the wide one. I better just craigslist 'em. Nobody reads this yet.

I'm buying a piano. Even though I need to get the brakes in my car fixed.

Why didn't I bring a book to work?

Dream Running

2007-09-04T08:29:00.001-07:00

Dream last night:

It was a SunRun, but not the usual kind. The race was weird, I stopped and had a beer. I ran around the course several times, but the end was what shocked me.

Usually with the SunRun, you cross a finish line and that's that. In this case there was a first finish line, where most people went, but there was also another goal. Climb a mountain in Italy. So I suppose we were running the SunRun in Italy, but I didn't know this until we climbed the mountain. The mountain went straight up, and there was a part where we had to hold a ridge and shuffle along an inch wide ledge. I joked with another man in front of me and then closed my eyes so I could feel the ridge better. I cupped it with my palms and felt for the easiest place to hold before I took a step.

The reward for reaching the top of the mountain was an incredibly beautiful old abandoned monastery with ornate rugs and tapestries, and a theatre. They were going to have to helicopter us winners back off the mountain, I don't know how we would have gotten down. But I woke up before that.

Anyway, very vivid climb up the mountain. Exhilarating!

Back to the Old Ways

2007-09-01T18:44:00.000-07:00

It always seems that I want to write when I'm unhappy or confused or upset. Usually when I'm completely happy I have no time/reason to sit down and write in a blog unless I actually have a story to tell or a rant to share.

So now, I find myself falling back into old behaviours. I'm freakin' out, man.

School is looming. I start on Wednesday. Here's the deal. I am getting an English degree because I want one, not to get a better job, or to make more money, especially since it doesn't seem to matter anymore anyway. I'm going to school because it makes your mind better and your life experience more rich, not to mention your knowledge base and reasoning ability. This makes me happy.

It does not, however, further my acting/film career in the least. It hones my writing skills and gives me more to write about in a screenplay/short story capacity, which is helpful, but it doesn't put me on the map.

So am I making the right decision? Am I possibly hampering my film industry success with academic success? I think I can do both, but can I really? Am I just making my life more financially difficult or am I doing myself a favour? The longer and more in debt I become, the more difficult I make it for myself to leave town, which a big part of me still wants to do.

Now is not necessarily the time for that, but it's coming. Iceland? Totally. The UK? Hells yeah. NYC? FUCK YES PLEASE! I'm pretty much stifling here, but that's what I have to do, at least for now, until I get my ducks in a row.

It's tough to leave when you're a grownup with roots and property and family etc.

Anyway, school is forthcoming, stress even moreso, and I'm not sure I won't totally crack up under the pressure. Wooooo!

Someone buy me beer. Or Barley Wine, because it's really good.

Payanna

2007-08-25T18:27:00.000-07:00

Why do people put hats on their dogs?

So I'm thinking I want a piano. An upright, old school piano. I don't know where in my house I'll put it, but I'm thinking I want one. I had a look on craigslist to see if anyone was giving a piano away, you know, if there wasn't enough space in their home (ironic?) or if they're moving and don't want to deal with it.

My mother sold our old piano. This is the very same piano of which there are photos of me sitting naked on the piano stool as a one year old. I was born for that instrument, really. I took years and years of lessons and I never appreciated them, and isn't that always the way. You know you're mother was always right when she said that one day you'd thank her for the lessons and you'd be sorry you didn't practice and wanted to quit.

You know what? I'm finished work now, so I'm going to finish this later, which means I'm never going to finish this, so you'll just have to wonder...

Bike Snobs

2007-08-23T12:54:00.001-07:00

You know, it occurred to me this morning, whilst riding my totally rad neon-forked, bright blue davinci monstrosity, that bike-vanity is just like car-vanity.

I saw a girl huffing her ass up a hill on an old school cruiser bike. Don't get me wrong, it was a gorgeous bike, but totally impractical for what she was doing. I imagine she painfully dragged herself up that hill every day, and it never got easier. Those things are heavy! But she loved that bike and rode it because it was cool and beautiful.

Same as cars. You drive a car that fits into your social choice of demographic.

There's a kind of snobbery about bikes, where if you don't have the cool hipster bike, you're not cool. Then there's the kids with the badass self-built bikes, which are great, but if you don't ride one of those then you're some kind of bike wannabe poser. Then there are the mountainbikers that spend several thousand on their bikes, and half of them are posers and half of them are incredibly good. So where do I fit in?

I don't wear spandex, I do ride on the road, I don't have slicks, nor do I have a mudguard. I don't wear a helmet, even though I know I should. I ride my bike in ballet flats, I don't have clips or cliplessness, I do have a headlight strapped on with hockey tape and a rear light that actually works . I ride a hardtail, and I do know what that means, though I don't ride it down mountains. At least not yet. My bearings are really good, so my bike rolls really fast and I often gain speed on people without pedaling on a downhill. I'm a little speed racer. I don't deliver packages, I use road rules like a car does on the road (except when I feel the need to hop on the sidewalk). I don't have tassels, I don't have rad handlebars or tricky standing bars. My brakes are getting kinda low.

So where do I fit in? Not a road racer, not a mountain biker, sort of a commuter without the gear, not a punk ass, not a hipster. Yet I love my bike, I love riding my bike and when it's nice out there's nothing more exciting. Well, actually there are lots of things that are more exciting, but it's pretty goddam exciting.

Anyway, don't judge me, like I just judged you, bike folks. We all gots two wheels, and we all go like stink, and scoffing at my neon green fork won't make you any cooler.

Woooo!

Watch It

2007-08-22T21:49:00.001-07:00

Sheer brilliance.

Spaced.

Click "S" and then scroll down to Spaced.

I Ride My Bike

2007-08-22T09:55:00.000-07:00

I rode my bike to work this morning, like a good girl. I was whizzing along Lamey's Mill Road when I was hit smack in the middle of the forehead by a gigantic fly. Really, I think I hit the fly with my forehead, but it made the most sickening, satisfying *!THWACK!* I've ever heard. It didn't really hurt, but it was a bit shocking. I was almost unseated.

On the topic of bodies doing things like riding bikes and assaulting flies, I'm on this anti-vanity quest. I'm trying to temper the aspects of my psyche that pertain to vanity. Muffin top? Does it really affect anyone? No. That photograph that's of my bad side? So what. My hideous student ID photograph that is probably one of the worst photos ever taken of me? So what. It's only a photo. So what if everyone I want a student discount from will see it, and every bus driver I give my U-Pass to will see it. I'm standing right there with it. I don't look like the ID, really, though, since it's so bad. I wonder if I'll get questioned as to whether or not the ID is mine.. hmmm.

Anyway, back to the topic. I was watching "The Fountain", as I mentioned, the other day and it occurred to me what makes a great great actor. Someone who is not self-conscious. Someone who does not worry desperately about how they look on camera or whether they look fat in whatever they're wearing or worrying whether people think they're doing a good job. A really great actor does the work, and knows they're doing a good job because they're doing the work. Period. No vanity.

Vanity, it then follows, is the mark of mediocrity.

So how does one go about doing this? I suppose one does the things one wouldn't usually do due to one's usual vanity. For example, I'm wearing a t-shirt today that's slightly snug, but is a great colour on me and has little green apples all over it. Totally cute. So what's the rub? Normally I'm embarassed that when I sit, my gut is less than flat. Even when I stand, it's a little paunchy. But think in the grand terms of the universe. The entire machinations of the cosmos continue whether or not I have muffin top. What does it matter? What does it matter what that person in the van I just rode my bike past thinks of me? It doesn't. And that's how you do it. Break it down.

Vanity is the mark of mediocrity and I am far from mediocre. Time to believe that.

Somebody Smash a Champagne Bottle

2007-08-21T10:21:00.000-07:00

So here it is. I haven't had a particular, regular blog for quite some time. I was blogging a fair bit on Myspace for a while, but that site just petered out and lost all its charm, really. Now it's sort of sad. A place for webcam girls, wannabe bands and rap artists.

I can see how the community fell apart, and why facebook has exploded. Myspace was all about me me me me me, whereas facebook is all about us us us us us. It is bringing people together in a way that Myspace can't. Although facebook lacks a really good blogging tool, in my opinion.

Anyway, the old blogs were on diaryland. One was started back in 2000 and lasted a couple of years. The second was started in 2003 and was probably one of the darkest times in my life. Dark, dark days, I'm telling you. Quite the dramatic read, at times. Anyway, both still exist, and I think they might be passworded, but I rarely visit save to have a little looksee at how much I and my writing have changed. It's a little scary.

Maybe I'll link em up one day, but for now, I'll maintain a little air of mystery.

Hey, smash me with booze, this ship is launched, yo.