pack of fanny.

unfinished story.

Today in English, we had to make six 'Story Starter Sentences' that make you want to read more.
Mine were as follows:
1) Through squinted and crusty, sleep-worn eyes, all I could make out was a strange face - and an even stranger itch.
2) Mid-July mornings are colder than you think when you spend the night sleeping on a park bench.
3) He told me he was leaving me, and all I could think about at that moment was how I forgot to put on underwear that morning.
4) The tickling of his beard on my upper lip was overshadowed by my immense need to go to the bathroom - but I restrained myself because I knew his wife was coming.
5) It was hard to differentiate between my red lipstick on his face and the dried blood from last night.
6) My body - and mind - ached from lack of sleep, but the whiskey bought by the man across the bar would soothe my pains - for now.
So I decided to go with number one.. and I kind of went on and on and on..

Through squinted and crusty, sleep-worn eyes, all I could make out was a strange face - and an even stranger itch. Cigarrette butts were floating like dead fish in my half-finishe dglass of whiskey. I didn't know who this bastard was but he obviously had no respect for my five-dollar-a-bottle choice of refreshment.
What the hell did he give me? It felt as if fire ants were practicing a dance routine on my thighs. He still thought I was asleep because as he was getting dressed, he stopped sucking his belly in (if I recall correctly he was about 5-10 pounds skinnier last night) and he was rummaging through the loose change on my dresser. I watched him furtively, laying in the slightly sweat-dampened bed on my dirty pillow that smelt sour from dried saliva. I contemplated how I could make his exit as unawkward as possible.
Trying to stay stagnant proved hard due to the itchy-thigh situation. It felt like there was a small battle of fire vs. thigh occuring on my body - and my thighs were losing. I couldn't handle it anymore, and with the reflex-like manner of one swatting a fly seen in his peripheral vision, I attacked my leg with fury and momentarily soothed the itch. In the Battle Of My Body, my thighs had called in for re-inforcement, and it arrived promplty in the form of chipped fingernails (ten troops in all).
"Oh you're awake?"
"What's it to you? I don't know who you are, so you can take your shit and go. Bathroom's the first door on the left if you need."
I successfuly failed at my 'unawkward' scheme.
"Do you even remember who I am?"
"You are the result of a much too leiniant bar tab, that's what you are. We don't have to make small talk, you know. I guess I should have asked you for your medical history before jumping in bed with you. Do you got any ointment for this fucking itch? Goddammit I'm never drinking again, I swear. For all I know you gave me AIDS. Why the hell would you do that to me you bastard? I'm gonna have to get my leg amputated I know it. I won't be able to walk again, I'll never be able to go to China. I've always wanted to go to China, you know? See the people - so many of them. Probably two or three billion, I wouldn't know. I don't get CNN on my T.V. I only get public channels. Last week they had a really good show on Yanni. You know Yanni, that composer. That shit's interesting, right? So beautiful the way he moves his hand and they just know what to play, instinctively kinda. My mom was gonna get me a violin for my birthday in second grade, but all I got was a pair of socks. I only ever get socks."
"You're one fucking crazy bitch."
He didn't even bother to do up his belt as he walked out of my front door. I always use the crazy-woman approach when I can't shake a guy fast enough.

Unheard Song
This vignette was based on a picture. Mine was based on this picture. We were supposed to remain in the picture frame, and not write about anything outside of it. I tried.

The 'Shrimp Shred' sign adorning the window above taunts him. Playing his guitar never accumulates enough change to purchase the Jumbo Burrito which people enjoy inside, oblivious to the magnificent sounds coming from his beat-up guitar. Some may say his attempts are pointless, by observing the fruitless harvest in his empty tethered-and-taped guitar case. I wonder where he'll sleep tonight. The guitar, which is decorated by the word 'love', won't have to worry about that: a red velvet bed worthy of a king awaits it tonight.
His name is Andre, I gather from the sign to his right. If this picture could sign, goosebumps would cover your body. Camped outside a Taco Del Mar - playing for no one in particular - he exists. The mere acknowledgment of his existence is forever captured by this photograph. A sliver of time is caught when the light waltzes with mirror and finds a home on this paper: and I hold it in my hand.
The tiled wall frames him so nicely. Grey and black tiles form a pyramid, it's peak above his head and growing larger at the bottom so he only rests against the black tiles. He is the light against the dark, dark tiles.
Dirty, but warm nonetheless, socks are revealed occupy the large gap between the cuff of his pants and the top of his black shoes.
His pants are too short.
He doesn't seem to mind.
He sings about love.
He offers his own love to me.
Humbly, I accept it feeling greedy and offering mine in return. Who am I to take love from someone who is so often ignored, so often neglected to be noticed by passers-by who have some place to go, something to do, someone to meet or some kid to pick up from some soccer practice? Who has time for love?
He does.
I'll never turn down free love again. His love sounds like a well balanced coffee: smooth and rich - but also sweet. His salt and pepper beard sits like a tuft of moss on his aged head, which rests on the same weathered piece of wood, on the same guitar, on the same street, day after day. He sings for anyone who will listen.
He sang for me.

Raw Hot Dogs
Writing class has started, so I'm going to start posting some prose that I write in that class. These are all 'shitty first drafts', and the beginning of this one is painfully awkward and horrible, I may as well just not write the beginning anyway.

Chelsea was pretty. She was prettier than the other girls. She had prettier dresses than the other girls. Her long, blonde hair draped her beautiful face perfectly. She was immaculate (or so it seemed at the time in kindergarten). Never had a hair out of place, never had chocolate pudding in the creases of her mouth, and also was never kind to me - or anyone for that matter.
I, with my curly brown hair that seemed to always be where it shouldn't be (like in my food or in my mouth) and wearing dresses my mom made me out of what can only be described as patchwork-worthy fabric, admired her. I wanted to be her: I wanted her hair, I wanted her dresses, I wanted her face, hell I even wanted the little sidekick she always had with her. Chelsea was a beautiful tragedy: so young and yet so arrogant.
Before lunch time, our clsas would all go together to wash our hands. Our school was an old Vancouver school, so the bathrooms were unisex. I hated peeing in front of people, so I would just go in the stall and pretend to while I listened to the unsteady trickling of water hitting water in unison from the stalls surrounding me.
Chelsea and her sidekick (Stephanie) would always be the last to leave because they would stay and apply Lipsmackers in the mirror. Sometimes I'd try to take extra long washing my hands, just so I would be late nad be able to be seen coming out with them. I remember I used to always use too much soap and not enough water as I mastered the art of peripheral vision to see what she was doing. My hands would get sticky as I got sidetracked and the soap woudl get dried between my knuckles
One day, I had managed to be one of the last to leave the bathroom. It was just Chelsea, Stephanie, me - and my friend, who for the sake of my socail reputation, I would deny I was friends with. He was the kind of guy who ate raw hot dogs at lunch, and would get made fun of my the kids (me included) then after school we'd go to my house and eat more raw hot dogs (but with ketchup this time). He was an easy target, and Chelsea was an accomplished archer.
As we were all exiting, my friend got in the way of Chelsea. Like an angered bull who sees a red flag, she - being much larger than him - proceeded to pick him up by the shirt collar and nail him against the wall. I thought that only happened in movies. "Stay out of my way, dummy." Naturally, Stephanie went and pushed him against the wall after Chelsea had let her go. "Yeah! Stay out of her way!" she added. The two girls giggled and left. Defeated, and with his head hung low, he slowly made his way out after they left.
I didn't know at the time, but I had seen my first real glimpse of human nature Needless to say, I retired my Chelsea Fanclub badge that day. The next day, I brought little McDonald's ketchup packets to school. Those were the best raw hot dogs I've e ver had.

like in the seinfeld when
I missed my bus again. I only work one day a week at Value Village, yet somehow I manage to be late all the time. Public transportation is getting old.
I got asked to write feature articles for some Alberta youth magazine. It turns out it's a magazine distributed by 'Alberta Mental Health For Teens' which is ironic because I think it's safe to say I'm far from sane. I don't know whether I'm going to write the article, beause a) it says that they pay on the website, but there was no mention on the phone (well it's not like I'm going to quit my dayjob, but you know) and b) I'm not sure I would want to degrade myself to writing in a mental health magazine. I mean, I know everyone's got to start somewhere, but I think I'd be lying if I didn't allude to my insanity. Also, I'm not sure the first topic is really my area of specialty: choices.
I am probably the most indecisive person around. Not only am I indecisive, when I do end up deciding, it's usually the wrong choice. I am the poster child for wrong choices. I epitomize mistakes made by stupid young girls, and now I have to write about making the right choice and [ideally] steer that mis-guided youth, who is seeking some direction, who is in desperate need of a role model, that picks up a magazine promoting SANITY [aka conformity] in hopes that somewhere in the myriad of 60% recycled paper, there will be ONE article, ONE peice that will forever change their lives and magically prvent them from ever making a wrong choice in their life again, producing the purest, most immaculate human being - some may even say Stepford wife material - which (in reality) is just a naive person who has never lived.
Ahh. Looking back on my run-on sentence, I realize that I seemed to have gone off on some hyperbole-crazy tangent there, My example may have been a little extreme, but I firmly stand by my point. Don't be stupid, but don't be afraid to make the wrong choice and fuck up every now and again. I have never learnt a lesson (that I remembered) from taking the easy road. Making mistakes teaches you what NOT to do, and sometimes, it's easier to remember to not stick your hand on the stove only AFTER you've been burnt.
Fuck. I can't write this article. Look at me, I'm one wrong choice after another, and I haven't learnt a thing, and they want me to teach how to make good choices, ironically enough. Well, maybe I have learnt a thing or two, but I never hear about the good things I do, all the smart moves I make; I'm constantly reminded of all the wrong choices I made and continue to make.
On the phone, the editor said I should write about choices and how they're affected by pressure - pressure to smoke, pressure to drink, pressure to have sex, etc. How the HELL am I goign to do this?? I've given into all those 'pressures'. Basically: I'm a doormat. If only the magazine knew they wanted a doormat to write about standing up for yourself - har har.
I also asked her if my poetry was going to be in the issue. Originally, I had submitted a few poems and a sample of my writing (in hopes that I could soon gloat about being a published poet). Her response? "Oh, uh sure yeah whatever we can publish you poem, but um... we need you to do THIS article." I guess I should get used to writing for someone else, instead of just myself.
This bus smells like sushi. Not the good kind of sushi, but the warm, imitation crab, $1.99 sushi. I'm getting antsy because I know I'm going to be late. Periodically I flip open my phone to see how late I'm going to be and gage how big of an excuse I have to fabricate.
Yesterday, I came to find mutiple bottles of booze on my counter. I couldn't decide if it was because my dad was thirsty, or something was goign on. Turns out the next night (as in tonight) we're having a party.
Let's see how much tequilla my dad tries to make me drink tonight.

live through this.
I sit on my roof, and it feels like I'm the only one away inthe whole world - for a moment. The lights turn green on the street a few blocks up and the cars remind me that I'm never alone. For a brief moment I foolishly thought I was the only one experiencing this, but I never am the only one, and I never will be the first or last to experience this. My smoke rings circle the stars, they catch them and have them momentarily in their possession, then they dissapate into the atmosphere. The stars were mine for a small peice of time. They were in an unbreakable circle that became broken. It's always refreshing to know that things are never forever. It's refreshing to know that change is always changing and change will change this.

Between shivers and hiccups I try to squint a clearer image out of this paper. I never liked seeing waht I was writing anyway. I thought the summer was supposed to be warm.

More often than not I'm reminded of my naivete. More often than not I'm much too aware of my circumstances. Sometimes I'm fulfilled, but more often than not I'm not. I guess I'm selfish.

My divine plan tonight was to get rid of that lone cigarette butt that's been camping on my roof for quite some time now. I missed the gutter and it fell on my front steps. I'm sure I'll hear about this in the morning, or whenever everyone else awakes and gets on with their day.

At four in the morning, nothing has ever been so clear, kind of. I think borderline personality is the worst psychological disorder, but I know what I think is wrong (more often than not).

It's weird. If you stare up into the sky for long enough, those two or three stars suddenly are accompanied by dozens more. If you look long and hard enough, the lights in the sky are so clear and bright it's blinding.

I may as well be writing in Chinese. For one, the novelty of my cryptic writing has worn off. I wish I could write so even I would understand what I'm trying to say. Secondly, it seems that whatever I say is open for much interpretation on the reader's beahalf, that usually ends up int he wrong message being concluded, and clearing up is usually in order. I wish I was some kind of prodigy that could convey my point so clearly without having to allude to anything. This is why I could never possibly write a novel. No one would understand it. I can't keep on one subject long enough to define it. My ass is so cold from the shingles right now. It must have rained while I was in the washroom because I can feel the dampness, or (which is more probably the case) I wet myself.

What's wrong with me? Do I really have nothing to write about that I keep thinking about how I fucking missed throwing my cigarette butt into the gutter?

A packed car passes me, makes a U-turn, and slowly drives by. I know my solitary moment was too good to be true.

It's getting so cold but I don't want to go back into the warmth of my room. Somehow, this is more comfortable.

magnificent in disguise
Seventeen never seemed so young, but two hundred eighty one days seem so far away when you count them down one by one. "Why would you want to sleep your life away until you're 18? You'd miss all the great suffering that high school has to offer." That's so true. I want to start my life, I don't want this anymore. I don't want to have to live under someone else's rules anymore. I want to be able to choose my own life. This is the most comfortable prison I think I could be in. Picture frames on my wall frame nothing at all. I see the ugly colour of my wall in place of a picture. I need to make somehting for that frame. I think that's how I operate. I get the frames first, then I find something to put in them. I'll make something, eventually, for it.

I ask for things from no one in particular, and no one in particular gives me what I want, but in the wrong way or at the wrong time. I find someone almost exactly like me (with the opposite reproductive organs), but it's nothing more than a cruel tease. I can't have what I want when I want it. I have to wait, and I'm done waiting. I can't wait for my coffee at Starbucks, I can't wait for my change at the gas station, I can't wait for the paint to dry on my canvas, I can't wait to grow up.

It seems like I'm always envious of someone or something. It seems like all the cool people live in Montreal. I am sure that can't be true though, there must be people here that can share the same interests as me, I just have to find them, and I hope they're not as far away as it seems they are.

You know, when you look back on something, and it's like a woah-I-blinked-my-eyes-and-it-was-over kind of moment? I keep blinking but I just open my eyes to the same scene. I know I'll look back in a year or two and wonder why I wanted to grow up so fast, but right now I want to be selfish. I want to grow up, I don't want to go to high school, I don't want to pretend to like people, I don't want to work for nothing, I don't want to kill time, I don't want to wait anymore! When does real life begin and when does this end?

Furtively, we remain; but soon - it will have to end.

Current Music: a man/me/then jim - rilo kiley

the indian in the cougar's nest
I haven't been carrying my journal around with me much anymore. I think it's cause I have too much to think about and whenever I have too much to think about I never end up materializing it into any kind of literature, probably because I don't want to document these times in my life.
Today I said goodbye, well kind of. Everything's changing, and I feel like that rock in the sand that stays stagnant as the waves crash over it. I think I'm starting to get a little loose though.
The best gift I ever got, wasn't the amazing present kept under her arm, but it was her friendship. For a couple of months I had someone relatable, like me but cooler, like me but more motivated; someone even REMOTELY like me was pleasing. I feel selfish, but things always end up like this for me. Anything good in my life only remains for short amounts of time and has a way of disapating and never returning. So many people pass through your life, but how many will you remember? More importantly: How many will remember you?
I can't even look at the screen when I write anymore. That's why I like my journal, because I can look away from the paper and look at the faces and look at the sky and look at the ground and just look away for a moment to escape and go into whatever reality I want to go to. All I can do now is close my eyes and hope my figners hit the right keys. I can turn to my left, where I see a poorly painted picture (sometimes my ambitions exceed my actual talent).

Well, as for the novel: I don't know. You could write a novel about anything. I could write a novel about writing a novel (but that's been done, see: Adaptation). This internal struggle I have with choosing a topic seems a little silly, considering it's clearly evident that I don't have the ability to write a novel. Moments like this it would come in handy for my mom to tell me I'm 'not old enough, that's grown-up stuff, don't play with that' like she used to.

I feel my words getting weaker and weaker. I don't even care anymore. I don't want to be cryptic. I don't think I have it in me anymore to be cryptic. I have lost my last whim of creativity, and I think it might be embedded somewhere on my ground amongst the crumpled up failed attempts at originality.

something ironic.
My bed is extremely uncomfortable, but so are all the other options. I decided I want to write a novel, but I have doubts already. I must be very self-righteous if I think I am literally-inclined enough - or even competent enough - to write a novel. Secondly, I don't want it to turn out as an angsty, teen-aged, self-indulged book based on my own life and nothing more, but that's probably what it's going to end up as, considering I don't have the creativity to write about anything beyond my limited daily occurences, and my daily occurences are so limited (that it might end up as a five-hundred paged book about how my dad always leaves the T.V. on when he goes to bed, and when you try to turn it off he wakes up from the lack of sound, but the sound keeps me awake only adding to my isomnia and run-on sentences). It's like my life is a run-on sentence. Everything just keeps going, only with minor pauses (commas) and in the end it doesn't make sense and you look back on it like "Wow, I could have really used a period there." But by then it's too late, because you didn't want to waste the two minutes to proof-read it so you just called it finished, and wondered why you got such a poor mark. Maybe I'll just write for myself, to see if I even have the mental capacity to write anything remotely brilliant. It's not like I have any hopes of being published. Okay, that's a lie - I can always HOPE, but realistically, no one's ever going to publish a seventy year-old maybe retarded, definitely insane borderline-personlatiy girl with a superiority complex and nothing under her belt except pants. I suppose I want to achieve somethign that is almost unattainable to the less-than-brilliant, non-child prodigies like me. I don't have it in me though. I don't mean that in a pessimistic way - I mean that I don't have the ability, let alone the desire, to plan this out. I've never planned out anything in my life, now I have to worry about how my conflict will be resolved by the antagonist in the climax of my story? I don't read a lot of non-fiction for a reason. It's mostly unrelatable to me. I like rawness, I like unaltered stories of actual encounters with actual people. I want a Seinfeld book, really. That's real. Too bad real isn't entertaining anymore. I don't think anyone wants to read about my eternal struggle with the broken toilet paper holder anyway.

vicar in a tutu
I get life's lessons from Starbucks coffee cups. I only wish I listened to them. Starbucks can't teach me how to be a good friend, though. It can't teach me what I desperately need to learn. It can't teach me morals, it gives me no dignity, and it can't teach me who to trust.
A lady sits in the table adjacent to me, her head on (who I can only presume is) her husband's knee. I think she is crying - not sobbing, but gently weeping. Maybe he just told her he's leaving her for a younger woman, or maybe she just told him she's pregnant with another man's child, and tried to soften the blow so he wouldn't be as shocked when the baby came out half black. I wonder what's going to happen when I leave. The man looks indifferent, not evne comforting her, as he sits there with a hard-on. Glimpses into other people's lives tell you so much yet leave so much to be known.
I wonder what people think when they see me. Do they see my shame, my anger, or my regret as I sit here watching them? Does my sorrow exude from my posture? What do they see in me? Do they even see me? They have their own problems to deal with rather than analyzing mine. I think they see me for my face value - fortunately. I've become an excellent actor.
I've done a lot of stupid things, but do I deserve this punishment? That's a stupid question because obviously I do deserve it and I know I do. I pretend to have morals, but where are they now? I pretend to have a conscience, but it obviously seems to have failed me, or more so I failed it. I shouldn't be trusted, I shouldn't be allowed to have friends because I have a way of always hurting them.
I hurt though too. Knowing that those who you care about the most can't confront you with what they really think about you, instead they lead you on and proceed to dicuss these matters. It hurts me when your 'friend' doesn't give a fuck about you. You give an arm and a leg for them, but they ask for more limbs and punish you for being considerate or generous.
I've lost my trust in people, especially myself. We're all looking out for ourselves and no one else, no matter what anyone says.
It doesn't phase him - he enjoys my pain. More like a robot than a human being, I think. This was supposed to be a 'ha-ha' moment years down the road, but maybe it's better that it came out into the open, I just now know how digusting I am.
The bus is packed and stuffy. I want to get off now but I have too far to go. My ass is sticking to the chair, and the stench of other people's sweat is sickening me. I hate sitting on the sideways seats, you can't see where you're going, only where you've been.
Last night was long. I hate my dad for being an asshole, but I hate more than that. I countdown the days until freedom because I'm never satisfied.
It's weird being in this position. When the shit hits the fan it hits hard, and it goes everywhere leaving defecation dried up into every nook and cranny of your life. Everywhere you look you see peices of shit dried up and crusting into everything that is of value to you. You were the root cause of this. Fucking stinks.
Someone just got off the bus, so I move seats so that I'm facing forward. I hate when the bus stops and you move forward a little. I broke the screen on my bedroom window last night, I hope my parents don't notice.
How many second chances do I get? How many times should I be forgiven? I blame the poor parental upbringing. No, I don't blame anyone but myself for all of my faults. I am a bad person because I choose to be I I deserve everything I get, if not worse.
The sun's shining on me, making it hotter than before - but more comfortable verses the stuffiness. I'm almost home; bus rides aren't so bad anyway.

don't mug yourself
Coffee after coffee after coffee after coffee. Throw in a fag every now and then into the mix, and you get my day, my everyday. Looking at my hands, they tell a story. Phone numbers I should forget, paint from buddha that hasn't washed off from the previous night, chipped nails, and the ever-present, ever-increasing shake. I lost a lot. I lost my motor skills (due to caffiene and lack of sleep), i lost my health (partially, and it's decreasing willingly), and - well we all know - my sanity. I also lost my free time and my money. Ashes keep falling on the paper between words that don't make sense. I feel so tired, so worn, but I can't stop. I'm in a constant battle with my body. It needs sleep, I need to keep going. It needs rest, I need to keep going. It needs food, I NEED TO KEEP GOING. The barista at Starbucks now knows me on a first name basis. I know her name from the sign. I knew it owuld come to this one day. I love hearing other people's conversations while I feel their eyes peirce me. To my left, he talks about customer satisfaction and continues hsi pointless sales pitch to a sold customer.

I could fall asleep right now. The days of the week mean nothing to m me anymore. Morrissey said it best: everyday is like Sunday.

The time won't pass fast enough. I am looking forward to school. I want to work toward a goal, instead of working toward tomorrow. I have too many bruises. I gotta stop running into things. I gotta stop running. My mind can't stay on one thought anymore. I don't even know who I am writing to anymore. I don't know anyhting anymore. I used to write for approval, now I write because I don't know how to deal. I wish I could say I have an undiagnosed disorder, but unfortunately I think this is just how I am.

and then this happened.

I can't stop to
think: what drives
you? are not going to
stop (only if you crash and
fall) won't come fast
enough! I've had enough of
this chair is the only rest I will
get a hobby, get some
talent? But when's the
show me what you've accomplished thus
far from here is where I want to
run!run!run! Lou Reed is your only
friend? You've never been one to
anyone have a light? Mine just
died.

god is a word that i dream about
This is from my journal today.

The anticipation to start vandalizing these pages with my insanity is almost unbearable. These pages are so blank it frightens me. When I was walking the drive with my freshly purchased notebook from an obscure stationary store, I keep thinking of how to end my entry. I fail to think aobut how to start it. This seems to be a reocurring theme in my life. I have things to say but don't know how to say them, and I havne't decided whether my potential exceeds my ambition, or vice versa. I feel sorry for my future kids (I bet YOUR kids will be beautiful).
-------------
Asleep at five am, awake at eight am for coffee and pictures, but I get stood up. Getting stood up never felt so good. After conversing, or rather trying to avoid conversing, with an elderly man who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows the Rolling Stones (six degrees of seperation, I suppose), I start to walk the drive some more. I buy into hype a lot lately, more than I'd like to admit to. I want to see what's under my nose, what's starting at me right in the face. Culture, I want culture. The suburbs don't offer much culture, and you can't find cool in the suburbs. Cool is few and far between in the burbs, but that's beside the point. I'm sick of the monotony of it. I want diversity, I want to see other people who don't look or act or think like everyone else.
In a myriad of cafes with names I can't pronounce, I epiphanize. This is the culture I'm seeking: cafes nsteled between independent book stores and vintage boutiques. So what do I do? I buy a coffee that I don't like, books I can't read and magazines I'll never be in, and a dress I'll never wear. All I need now is a bicycle and a Wolf Parade shirt.
Why am I so hypocritical? I enjoy the things I mock, so why DO I mock them? My superficiality and shallowness amaze me every time. I am on the hunt for cool, and, being dissatisified with the suburbs (the peak of suburbian cool is probably the fish and chips place), I go on a sempiternal, and fruituless, quest to find COOL. I want to be envied, I want suburban girls to stare at me, I want a bike. That's it: I've decided the only realistically attainable means of grasping cool is the uncool. I want to read, I want to play with action figures, I want to do math problems, I want to be polite and I want to hug my mom every day. Believe me, it'll catch on.
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The short skytrain ride back home reminds me that no matter how much I try to, or no matter how much I THINK I am, getting away from bleakness, I never really do. I'm always just a skytrain ride away. And I shouldn't be so cynical, I keep crticizing the suburbs liek there's something wrong with them but there's not. I always say you can find beauty anywehre, in ANYthing. Bus rides home have spaned many epiphanies. I seem to be ephiphanizing a lot lately. I'm not a philosopher, or a poet - or even smart. I'm just a little too daft (or maybe a little too sane).
Glimpses of the future seem to tease me. One more year until life begins.
-------------
I had so many ways I wanted to end this. A plethora of witty or poetic rhetorical ways I could conclude this. This is how things usually end with me though: not as planned, abruptly, and - more often than not - painfully awkwardly.

give me your eyes, i need sunshine.
goodbye value village. I gave my two weeks notice a couple of days ago (except i was kind enough to offer to work 2 sundays after that). music world is probably the best thing that ever happened to me, the people there are so cool and the work there is so easy (who cares if i get 65 cents less an hour). it seems that working at vv always leaves me wishing i called in sick. but now things seem to be getting on track.
i made my tattoo appointment for next wednesday. i was going to get (secret heart) under my left boob, but now i can't get it anymore becuase jake got mad at me when i told him (becuase he wants "sacred heart").
now i'm stuck: i already deposited money for the appointment, and i really want (secret heart) but i don't want him to be mad at me - or have a mathcingish tattoo. i don't know. i guess i have one week to find myself. in other news: i think i lost all my creativity. i don't feel like writing anymore, and all i do is make collages (which is easy/fun art). i don't know, maybe when i find myself i'll find my creativity as well. hopefully i'll find my sanity too. i'll keep you posted.

the revolution wasn't bad.
I'm quite happy: i found out i have wireless internet in my room. it's about 2:30 am, and i'm just updating my newly refound ipod with my newly bought cds (i bought a good $200 worth of cds today, but with my newly new discount, it was only a hundredish). today at work, or more like EVERYDAY at work, i realized i've never wanted to strangle a middle-aged woman more in my LIFE. take that, lyn. the cool manager's leaving, so now i have to make her something.
it's amazing how barren my msn list is at 2:30. who needs sleep anyway? not me, apparenlty. speaking of no sleep: the next day i don't work in the next three weeks is august 8th, MARK YOUR CALANDERS.
wow i realized that no one reads this, so what's the point of writing it? whatever, i'm on a roll..ish.
so i submitted some poetry to this magazine a while ago, and they replied saying that they will consider it for the september issue, but i haven't heard from them in a while.. and today i submitted ALL of my poetry to this other magazine (big mistake). but they don't pay.

i was thinking of just publishing myself, not to say i'm publish-worthy, but it would be cool to see my stuff SOMEWHERE. i also have come to the conclusion that i spend way too much time on the computer, hence the reason i'm goign to opus to buy art supplies with leah on monday :)
thoughts keep slipping my head, and i thought post-it notes would help. the other night i didn't get to bed until 5am-ish, and i woke up the next morning (or three hours later, actually) and found a post it note on my door that read: "to buy list: deodorant, coatha gers, caland r, mo e po t-its, new pen.
I only bought 2 of those items. YOU GUESS.
(and by you, i mean leah, since you're the only one that reads this, which also basically means i could write anything i wanted to and NO one would know but you. i'm basically internet-whispering this to you.)

my passtimes tend to make me perform in a perfunctory manner, that's in regards to important things.

Current Music: It's a Curse - Wolf Parade

WOW. Sam Roberts and Broken Social Scene and The Stills were fucking amazing.
I'm having such a wonderful couple of days. First: bss and sam roberts=WOW! could they BE any more amazing? seriously, i never had so much fun dancing before EVER. i carried a tub of nutella around with me the whole time as a peace offering - turned out to be more of a friend-repellent of sorts. whatever, h8erz. my boots got trampled on MAJORLY, but it's okay, i deserved it - i danced like a MANIAC.
it was amazing.
THEN
today, I FOUND MY IPOD!!!!!!
and and and I started my new second job at music world, and it's freaking great. I DO NOTHING and i get 50% off!!!
EFF I'M SO HAPPY

so k here are some pictures to keep you occupied.
ILOVESAMBERT

i cried old lady midnight, i fear that you grow old.
so much work, so much freaking work. lately my neck's been strained from looking over my left shoulder so much, i gotta stop writing. coffee and then more coffee, and then subtle hints at the inevetable(sp), and then - not in the manner that would have been ideal - the truth comes cascading down faster than a penny thrown from a tall building (and it hurt more when it hit). i honestly meant to tell, i did, and the guilt's been eating me alive for so SO long. i really wished that she was a bitch or a whore so i wouldn't like her, but dammit. no really, DAMN IT. why couldn't you be some snobby skunt, or maybe REALLY annoying so that i wouldn't feel so guilty? well - it had to be said and i'm glad it was said even though i wish it never became an issue (i have no one else to blame but myself). but still, i let her watch me watch the window, and i let her meet king peter, which isn't a character many meet. i'm so torn, because now everything i ever said seems to be a lie, and i would suspect the same thing, but on the other hand i'm glad it came out cause now i don't have to carry around this lead weight with me. hopefully it's for the better.
over tea and gin we talked about the things we read? no, over iced caps and hot chocolate we talked about the things i said.

Current Music: Lady Midnight - Leonard Cohen

your dad would kill me if he knew how old i was
sunny days call for wife beaters, not these shoulder heaters so before sliding on rails we make a pit stop at the centre commercial for pansy boy to get salad, and me to buy shirts i will never wear. the bus is like a furnace: i can't wait to get off and enter the only relatively cooler outside. i see the little 8 year old biker, the 12 year old skaters, and the .. the rollerbladers (any age is stupid for a rollerblader). i have a nice conversation about bananas and mangos and various other fruits (dried or otherwise) with someone who sits beside me before commencing his skatebaording. he drinks mango/carrot juice, and he offers me some (even though it's only 50% juice, and 50% "jugo" - which is probably juice in spanish i KNOW the jugo is what makes him skate well). benjamin and i converse about why belts/pants are overrated, then i peace. i'm starting to dread work as of late. food slips back into my conciousness and i remember i hadn't eaten today, so chickens stay crispy inside my stomach for a while. mediocore days call for new ways to entertain oneself. while coming back in from my break, i hold the door open for this guy, and then this guy and i talk again. turns out this guy is pretty cool, graduated from ubc though - asks me to go out for a beer, but when i tell him my age, he says "wow, you're dad would kill me if he knew how old i was".
no words truer done been spoked.

makeshift lovers
up till five in the morning making mixtapes and postcards. wake up this morning and as i walk out of my room i get little cut up pieces of paper stuck to the bottom of my feet, i hate that feeling. i was in some kind of insomniac-crazed mode last night, i wake up this morning feeling like it's the sunday morning after and you don't know where the fuck you are, or what you did last night but all you know is your head hurts like a motherfucker, except it was the wednesday morning after and my head still hurt, except there was no random person sleeping next to me, and no empty beer bottles - just pieces of paper everywhere and my cds all askew on my floor. in a daze, reach for my soma. the only day this week i don't work and of course i have nothign to do. meet duff, get denny's, get pictures developed, get home. i find out that my friend's lenses fit my camera, but while i took the lens off to measure, I get the mirror dirty, try to take off a little smudge, which turns into a LARGER smudge, WHICH TURNS INTO A FUCKIGN BIRDSHIT LOOKING STAIN
my camera is beyond repair
R.I.P. my camera.

every ghetto is the same
tried to look classy wearing heels and a dress - but I'm not fooling anyone. only old women think i'm pretty. Hi I'm moderatley attractive, what's your name? i caught up with old friends the other day, and even older friends today. venti coffees are just too much, but i can't help myself. i don't want to eat today either, i'm just not hungry anymore, but i eat a turkey wrap cause i know i have to eat or else i'll be retarded. the day seems to crawl by me, but then again i wouldn't want it to race past me. redundancy seems to hammer into my head, over and over and over and over again. nothing exciting ever happens anymore (how ironic is it that i say that while we have world war fuckign three on our hands). i feel so superficial reading nylon magazine, but i suppose that's what i am and i should come to terms with it. one day you have everything in your hands and you're on top of the world (self-esteem wise, that is) and the next a few words spoken - and a few words not spoken - seem to lower your spirits faster than is perferable. these are the days you dread, the days you know that there are others better than you and that are getting somewhere in life and
okay what the fuck is this
at first i make fun of livejournal calling it an emo site made for teenagers to complain about their non-suck-ass lives
and here i am
not starving, not maimed, not nearly as screwed as half of the world, COMPLAINING
what's wrong with me
i've never felt more selfish :)
why don't i talk about good things that happened to me today
i've become what i fought against, and what i had criticized

today i bought a duran duran and a vanilla ice tape for katrina's dreamboat, and a few blanks to make mixtapes. i also have a few magazines to tear to smitherines for the mixtape cover, a postcard for a picture taker, and a few more postcards for a few more important people.

i need another, i need another
sugar dumpling muffin baby, this world is going crazy
i think i'm through
listening to you
bones bones brittle little bones, it's not the milk you seek it's the sun you need
and this sleek sleek skeleton i hold
where are the hidden folds, where is the meat did you eat?

Current Music: Changes - Bowie

I see a moth make its way up my wall, and i think about killing it. i don't know why, it just seems like the appropriate thing to do, but i don't.

10 am calls my name. old friends come over and we partake in old hobbies. hard work materializes into shoes and a shirt, and a rather attractive young male who works at a rather attractive store. i don't want to leave the story empty handed, as to dissapoint him, so i buy something and i forget somethign else - his number. DAMMIT he was good looking. he asked us why we weren't at the beach, and we realized that that was a good question. after a quick thrift at the sweat shop, we head to the beach. her mom was right, there was no parking. we parked approximately 23456786543 kilometres from the beach. it was weird, walking through the bushes, it seemed like it took FOREVER to get there, but in reality we were so close. i guess when you really want to get somewhere, you can't get there fast enough and when you really don't want to leave, your time seems so precious.
I missed this, I missed fighting over the same purse. i'm glad i have it back for now.
thank god for half/half pizzas, no arguments there.
we're both so tired that for a minute i think we both fall asleep watching mtv. fruit platters sit on my table, and i can't stop eating mango. my dad's jokes are always so not funny.
my project for this week is to make a mixtape for "the dreamboat" (katrina's minivan). i think this will be fun.

today i got a bit of my past back, and i also got taunted by my future. everyone's picking their courses for university, while i'm just stuck here picking my nose.

Current Music: Third Planet - Modest Mouse

philistine
busy days never materialize to me. all these plans made and all these plans put on the back burner to take care of business that i didn't even take care of. waking up is hard when you're the only one. i keep running into people everywhere, i never realized how small coquitlam really is. go to work to spend money, not make it. margo creeps, you can smash but you stay silent. silent smashing, i suppose. today i don't feel very literarly inclined, oh well. we say our goodbyes to silent partners, and get on a bus. i hate public transportation. no i love it, it's a love hate thing. "think of Zen, don't think of the top, so much as the journey". i feel neglectful, and i feel bad about being so prudish, so there's always room for one more time. it's not like i didn't want to do it - it's just the approach. if you want me to give you my soul, just ask. if you want my dignity, ask nicely. so i can't leave because of the forgotten. you always leave things in the oddest places, and after i retrieve what i need, i'm off. perfect timing greets us as we greet each other. whenever i see her i get a little sadder. everything in life that you never got, and everything that you DID get, comes down the stairs. she also wears a pretty dress. you don't need a studio for a photoshoot, and you don't need direction to walk. after a lap or two, caffiene calls my name. i don't think i ate today yet, but a "grande" mocha will give me the energy. i intentionally call it a medium, and the "barista" hastily corrects me. all this lingo seems to sell. so outside we go, to straighten up georgia and to show peter jackson how my insides burn. seriously, coquitlam is so small. i greet the musical bread-winner. so we sit, and we capture, and we all talk but not all understand. different walks of life all end up at starbucks, and a polaroid to capture the moment seems fitting. after threatening an invisible larry, the teacher leaves to go get chocolate. pretentions are calling her, and another smoke calls me, so we part, but not before a picture to remember nothing special. it's the "nothing special" we always forget, and i think that's the best part of life - the everyday happenings that we happen to neglect. on the bus ride home i think of another rap, and as soon as i get home i forget it. i assure you it was probably excellent.

everyone seems to want to go somewhere other than here, but you don't know what's so wrong with where you are, right now.

Current Music: Suedehead - Morrissey

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