Ten Ways to Pretend to be Victorian

1. Drink coffee. Constantly. How strung out you are is of no consequence, nor is the fact that you need haven’t slept in two and half days; you will easily be recognized as an outsider if you are not currently drinking coffee, just had a coffee, or intend to go for a coffee within the next half hour. Keep in mind that once you do have a cup in hand, complain to anyone within earshot that your tiny, local coffee shop makes much better coffee.

2. Pretend you recycle whether you do or not. Otherwise, 97% of Victoria’s population will instantaneously look down on you and likely shun you; and should you dare to throw away a pop can when the next recycling bin is a mere three blocks away, expect to find yourself facing the glares of many a dreadlock-framed face.

3. When visiting the UVic campus do not fuss over the bunnies. Every native Victorian has tripped over so many bloody bunnies that they generally fantasize about integrating them into kicking practice. Keep in mind, however, that baby bunnies are the exception to the rule as even the most hardened local will succumb to their charm to coo and pat them.

4. While there are many components to truly blending in with local Victorians, it is commonly accepted that no one will ever know the street names of most of the island city’s roadways. It is more than enough to know the two street names outside of your hotel; should you manage to learn a third you will be able to fool anyone into believing how local you are.

5. Smoke pot.

6. Should you enter into conversation with a local, be sure to refer to the rest of Canada as “the Mainland,” while referring to their own island as “the Island.” Due to the elevated cost of living, Victorians have come to believe there exists a critical divide between their lifestyle and those who don’t live on the Island, and reserve the right to mention it when presented with the opportunity.

7. No matter how cool, how fascinating, or how frightening you may find the monster ferries that transport most of the Island’s population, be sure to act calm and/or bored when faced with a trip on board. Many Victorians ferry to the Mainland once or twice a week, and therefore have long since gotten over any sense of wonderment they may have felt. Becoming seasick in storms is almost unforgivable and will instantly mark you as a tourist.

8. The downtown area is a haven for the homeless and the housed have long since accepted not only their presence, but the likelyhood that they will run into the same homeless man or woman on a regular basis. If you intend to be in the city for longer than two weeks, it’s pertinent that you befriend at least one hobo to greet on a regular basis, or the homeless themselves will know you are not local.

9. To truly pretend to be Victorian, be sure to have something you bought from a second-hand store. If you cannot appreciate the benefits for the environment, child workers in Malaysia, and the Island’s very own homeless, at least wear a ratty old article and pretend you bought it for five dollars or so at a thrift store.

10. Complaining about the cold is not only common practice but a favourite activity of the local population, despite the temperate climate and near-permanence of above-zero weather. Should you ever be forced to wear a jacket with your sandals, be sure to mention the “relative cold” of living so near to the ocean and speak wistfully about the arctic conditions of your hometown; there, at least it’s a “dry cold.”

Nerds and Niches

I’ve had a lot of different stints as a nerd; at least I’ve tried. It may not be obvious, seeing as I lack the standard awkwardness or that I still don’t know how to function a DVD (never mind a VCR), but I can’t deny the internet evidence of old nerdy endeavours. Before discovering the delight of sexual conquests or the joy of bruising bitches, I paraded my way through minor obsessions spending countless hours “hexing” (or, for those who had real pets, squinting at lists of numbers) and breeding my digital Dogz, only to later evolve into a self-proclaimed HTML whiz to share their extensive family trees and the intricate lives of Sims (a natural evolution from my childhood love of Barbies). I even fancied myself an academic for some time, taking Advanced Placement courses and planning my studying time ahead of time, with designs on excellence awards and scholarships throughout grade school. Somehow, I got distracted and went drinking instead.

For years, I wandered from one obsession to the next, unable to find the right fit; it wasn’t until recently that I discovered the niche I’ve been thriving in all along. Waiting on a reflexive pronoun lecture, a classmate and I began discussing the ancient Greek word agape only to end with his story of summer camp and how “there I was, reading a Latin textbook for fun!” I smiled and nodded, indulging a fervent geek with eyebrows raised; what nerdier thing to do than to try to teach yourself a dead language over summer vacation? I, on the other hand, was taking a Latin course for much, much cooler reasons. And of course I would never consider buying a textbook for personal use, after all, it’s tremendously less geeky to get drunk and spend hours asking bemused Kenyans to explain Swahili word order. But then, whilst I revelled in my unquestionable advantage of awesomeness, he started to actively investigate why I was taking university Spanish and I found myself listing languages and countries like that was all I did.

“Oh, you know, my parents sorta speak five or six languages between the two of ‘em and I’m studying, oh, give or take four different languages so that I can travel while writing. I find the connections interesting and-” Suddenly it hit me, cliché of all clichés, I was a linguistically infatuated writer with an intent to travel. Good God; this was my obsession, my awkwardness, the topic with which I can bore a crowd in two minutes flat.

Hadn’t I post scripted my last email with a note on the origins of i.e.? Did I not just spend two hours of my time searching for the proper adjectival form of insulation? Never mind if I thought of myself as better than those who actually attend German Club’s Stammtisch nights; I still sat in classes next to them, did the research with them and dreamt of linguistically conquering all four corners of the globe like them. Needing reassurance, I turned to my closest friends, my family, my coworkers, my acquaintances and the people who happened to sit next to me in coffee shops, bars and on the bus. Here, I would discover that the night they met me, I was convinced I could speak fluent Spanish; there, I was told that they couldn’t care less about the unknown English declensions I had raved about just minutes prior. Apparently, my status as a language nerd had long since been established and might as well have been stamped on my forehead.

“T, you get hammered and speak in anything but English, you’re taking three language courses and already speak two,” said one roommate, pouring me another glass as I lamented the feedback I’d been getting. “What did you expect?”

I certainly hadn’t been expecting to find myself fitting into such a geeky niche so comfortably and so perfectly. I suppose I had come to believe that because I had grown through so many youthful phases that I had become immune to becoming awkwardly obsessed; obviously, I’ve managed regardless. Next time I run into that self-motivated, language learning classmate we will doubtlessly end up discussing how many fascinating connections there are between ancient languages and those alive today, but this time, I will engage in conversation fully aware that I have finally found my kind.

Birthdays and The Like

In complete, thorough, (slightly drunk) and anti-story sphere style, I would like to propose a toast to the glory that is my now Cross-Canada legality.

Cheers, Mothafuckas!

Encounters With a Writer

How to Calm and Keep Them

Despite the natural abundance of writing persons and general journalists around university campuses and coffee shops everywhere, a legitimate creative writer is often very hard to spot. The creative writer is exceedingly prone to both timidity and sensitivity, thus is easily startled and often bolts upon approach, leaving before any lines of communications are opened or bonds developed. Should you manage to locate a writer and wish to initiate a conversation, or even friendship, try to keep the following things in mind:

1. Should you unexpectedly enter into conversation with someone who you discover to be a creative writer, make sure to respond immediately (as any moments of bewildered silence can cause nervousness), developing a sense of familiarity by relaying some personal connection to the fine arts. While saying that you once read a book may not be quite specific enough, explaining your high school struggle as an aspiring breakdancer should do the trick.
2. Once you have identified the writer, it is imperative that you avoid asking how, exactly, he or she intends to succeed. The creative writer is highly sensitive in regards to this area, and simply stating the question can often remind them that their chances of a legitimate career are dubious at most.
3. Be sure to take a marginal interest in the writer’s work, engaging their ego enough to make them feel satisfactorily artsy, while avoiding over questioning the actual writing involved. The writer needs to be assured of their creative intrigue and mystique, so while asking where he or she will be cashing the cheques is encouraged, it is best to avoid enquiring as to the specific story lines or projects he or she is working on. They are very vague in nature and trying to get a valid explanation from them will only result in grumbling, tangled sentences, and muttered allusions to “no one understanding art”.

Armed with the above tips, your encounter should go smoothly, allowing you the full enchantment of a creative writer’s artistic ego, despite their natural skittishness. Remember, be appreciative and you may find yourself the confidant of many more authorial frustrations and insights than you could have imagined.

Notebooking Nothing

A couple of weeks ago, I managed to lose my notebook. Not an everyday notebook full of class notes, phone numbers or the mundane notions of everyday people, but my own personal notebook. The one with all of my essential memos, the daily “To Do” lists that never get done and the scribbles of erratic ideas that strike me throughout the day. In essence; my soul.

The odd thing about losing my soul, though, was that I didn’t even notice for the first couple of hours; there was no spontaneous combustion, bleeding from the ears, or even loss of consciousness- all of which would have made for a much better story. Instead, I simply went on with my trip, passing by entertaining advertisements whose slogans escape me and giggling at old ladies whose mannerisms I can no longer recall. Boring as the reality of my loss may seem though, it’s the escape of the creative inspiration that could have otherwise marked the remaining pages of my tattered book that strikes me as the deepest tragedy. What if the one story that would have rocketed me to fame and changed the face of humanity as we know it was just beginning to bud in a notebook that I will never see again? There, on the ferry, I had simply abandoned my hopes at renown.

It wasn’t until after I had left the ship and had begun to actively eavesdrop on a couple of entertainingly drunk men riding the bus that it hit me; I had nowhere to scrawl ideas and idiotic quotations. Nowhere to jot down the exact words of their discussion pertaining to diaphragms and whether they were drawn best in pencil or pen and nowhere to make note of a friend’s proclamation that she had put her cat on antidepressants. Where was I supposed to get my inspiration now? After all, a childhood of television had long since disfigured my imagination, so coming up with my own ideas was out of the question.

In desperation, I even called BC ferry’s lost and found to beg the lady on the other end to look for a small, ragged journal that contained my life. From the way she said “Your life then, eh?” I could tell she had lost her eyebrows in her hairline and was wondering how two-dimensional my existence was that it could be restricted to a notebook. How on earth was I supposed to describe the sort of chicken scratch that was so vital to my survival? I almost pity the ordinary person that must have found my notebook full of scribbles, in which the only comprehensible statements were those about “reproductive abilities” or my developed dislike of dryhumping in between mangled Spanish notes about calling my mom. Or that I’m in need of alfalfa. Who the fuck needs alfalfa and what does that even say about me?

Needless to say, it was left to the operator to tell me that no, my soul had not been recovered and, despite her kind words about a call back, the implication that I must be a lonely being to put that much of myself into bound scraps of paper still stung. There I was, left with a ten by twelve void in my heart, and I would have to get over it. I would need to abandon my hopes of ever remembering the kooky words of the bus passenger on acid that evening, or the observations I would make the next day on accents and the scent of piss by East Hastings. So, now a simple shell of my former self, I picked up a little green book I had lying around and began to muse the commencement of a life without the memories of old ideas, ignoring the butch chick reading over my shoulder to make sense of scribbles about “never again seen souls” and “piss perfumed breezes.”

Cosmopolitan Traditions

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Smack That!

What better way to say “I miss you” than to leave an impression that results in a week of soft cursing whenever you sit your sore behind down? Ask this of the average, female, humanities student and all you will get are several raised eyebrows and a few outraged gasps. According to a group of women in one of my English classes (whose collective refusal to admit make up may be a good idea and razors a fantastic one negates any desire to associate with them outside class discussions), a firm smack to the ass is not the way to win a girl’s heart.

“That’s supposed to be endearing?” she says, tugging at her calf length, burlap skirt.

Well, obviously. How else would a long-lost friend reaffirm his love for me than to assert how fantastically bootilicious my behind is? Truth be told, I like knowing that what my mama gave me is thoroughly appreciated, be it by friends or otherwise. It is those moments of feminist outrage that I (as unlikely as it may sound) feel the pangs of pity for the “oppressed sex,” although, coincidentally, considering how oppressed I’ve been feeling of late, I’ve begun to believe that there is quite possibly a third gender previously unknown to science- the otherwise labelled women’s studies major.

Between the extensive collection of bruises gathered during gameplay that may have one day been limited to me and the assortment of free drinks gleaned by lounging over the bar, I would be betraying myself were I to even nod in the direction of those who cry for female justice. Even with tits I could make a fortune (were my career ever to become one), I could buy and drink as much alcohol as the next guy, and I could uphold laws should I ever desire to; granted, the fight for feminine equality could still make some advancements were the access to male changing rooms remains limited. For that, I might consider not crumpling the petition sheet.

“But how do you justify the objectifying?” they might cry. Perhaps, biology may have something to do with it; our very own ogling of male muscles during sports games, the enthusiasm over the hard angle of a jaw, or for the less aggressive madames, the way the male lips curve over the words “make love to me!” I was once told that humans have been biologically designed for reproductive purposes, but that would be as ridiculous as believing in the existence of evolution. Astoundingly enough, science also states that an entire one hundred percent of the population is devised of males and females (although, should my earlier hypothesis be proven true, I will have to admit the aforementioned fact should no longer be considered as such) and therefore an equivalent percentage of human interaction is based on the genders of the involved persons. Thus, the demand for the cessation of both ogling and objectifying is not only a doomed battle, but one that would leave me without the wolf whistles, ass grabs and free drinks that not only add spice to my evenings, but flavour to my subsequent stories.

The feminist crusade to see a world of complete and utter equality is one that is about as completely and utterly useless as the laundry basket in my room. What kind of fun are we expected to have if we are forced to pretend that there are no subtle imbalances in the game play between dudes and broads? That I couldn’t swing my hips to get a door opened or cook dinner for the spell of solid biceps simply because we are all supposedly equal is just fucking ridiculous. I am about as equal as I ever want to be, being the “good looking broad” that I am and about as uninsulted by that statement as the next girl, and I could not possibly bring myself to sympathize with a chick who believes her breasts to be in the way of her future or who finds insult in a cat call. So they want all up on that hemp-covered ass; where’s the offence in that?

Cattles and Wives

Over the course of a trip to Kenya, it came about that I wasn’t only there to crisp my pallid complexion or ooh and ah appreciatively over animals whose names and forms I wasn’t familiar with. It turned out that all along I had been wearing a For Sale sign.

Being female, nubile and whiter than I would like to admit became my own personal advertisement that simply begged the locals to make extravagant offers to the family patriarch. Our first day in the country decidedly lay out the course of the next few weeks for me; one bold shopkeep took it upon himself to bid the entirety of the Masai Mara, animals included. Thankfully, despite his affinity for the bush and the potential for a prime piece of property, my dad declined.

Several days afterwards, a discussion with two younger Masai warriors brought about the question of the going rate for your average wife and I discovered that not only is the concept of a “free” wife baffling to them, but that a man would need to be at least ten cattle rich to even think of asking a girl from her father’s care (further confirmation that I am worth a hell of a lot more than one steak dinner). The conversation finally ended with a declarative offering of fifty cattle for my hand in marriage, much to the delight of my younger, growing and protein voracious brother. Needless to say, my dad spent most of the vacation giggling.

Eventually, Dad even took it upon himself to offer me to the locals we happened to engage in conversation. A particular group of the Masai tribe acting public relations several kilometres and tens of species later ended up, much to their misfortune, conversing with my rather spirited family. After a thorough discussion of Dad’s appreciation of the local birdlife, he began animated, and Tusker beer enthusiastic, gesticulation in my direction while seeking out a proposal in exchange for my hand in marraige. Unfortunately for my pride, partway through some light-hearted negotiations, my mother let slip that I was incapable of cattle milking. My brideprice instantly dropped to the entirety of one chicken. Brilliant.

To this day, my parents claim that our tour through Kenya was not intended as one to settle me with a paying husband; all proposals were, apparently, spontaneous. Whether or not I can believe my parent’s denial that this was premeditated is still up for debate, however. They must be holding out for a better deal with an oil-rich Arab; why else would they have put up with my shit for this long?

How to Get Rid of Writer's Block

And Other Such Useful Things for Useless Careers

- While spending time in polite company, the moment something remotely interesting and/or obscene is said (pay attention primarily to your own words as they are liable to be the most inventive), jump up, scream “Ah-ha!” and begin scrambling for a writing tool and surface, preferably while dropping your cigarette in someone’s lap to accentuate the drama. The opposite is true while in the presence of impolite company; here, it is recommended that the use of large words such as “exceptional ingenuity” and “incomparable pretentiousness” are frequent, particularly when in reference to your own work, so as to evoke varying theatrical responses.

- It is, in all actuality, exponentially more constructive to the creative brain to continuously envision the final goal as an acclaimed writer (the type of desired praise is entirely up to you) than it is to indulge academics and “professionals” by repeating mundane writing exercises.

- When vacationing in exotic countries, be sure to avoid telling locals how uninspiring their scenery, culture and language truly is; instead, try focusing on original ways to critically dissect everyday objects and rituals, such as changing your underwear or the Q-tip you have failed to discard over the last month.

- While attempting to write in public locations (such as the favourite coffee shop or park bench) and finding yourself stuck in an especially frustrating block, a solid method of forming unique ideas, and particularly inventive dialogue, is to leap to your feet and throw your books at passing strangers, cursing in all of your favourite languages.

- Although it may be true that one of the best creative wells for authors can come from what you know, oft times the subject matter at hand can become highly emotional and too unprecedented to be comfortable; this is best ignored in favour of writing about what we know as a collective of human beings- the colour of love when in proximity to roses, for example.

- If you find yourself to be completely lost for both words and motivation, you can always exchange your beret for blue hair dye and take Modern Art to the next level; begin writing pieces entitled Twenty One Questions with the sole sentence being “Okay, go.”

- After having seized upon a new idea only to discover that a substantial amount of research and leg work is required, the recommended course of action is to relinquish the material to journalists and rather to try for an essay based principally on your own insightful musings.

- When speaking with those who are more talented than you (and who are, coincidentally, better “acquainted” with critics and professors alike), be sure to apologize profusely after having accidentally spilt your coffee down their shirt while trading your respective notebooks of ideas. The latter is also an excellent source for future brainstorming sessions.

- Upon achieving your desired level of fame and/or infamy, be sure to establish and maintain an air of pompousness, to gaze thoughtfully into the distance for all portraits and, above all, to regularly interrupt conversations by mentioning stories or articles that you have written about the subject at hand.

Truly, Procrastination

Procrastination. P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. An appropriately useful word in all senses if you really think about it; and if you, like all other university students, have laundry, studying or some deodorant that needs purchasing, don’t just examine the word itself. Make sure to search cute images of procrastination, Wikipedia it and do some extensive research into Edward Hall, who first published the word.
It has recently occurred upon me (and I am quite serious when I say that

Quite ironically, I started but never finished this note on procrastination. In order to preserve this accidental eulogy, I have decided that, in this case, my work will remain unfinished.

30 Some-Odd Reasons to Drink

As a burgeoning Drunk, and one that is safely proud of it, I am often afflicted by the questioning looks and disapproving noises of those who cannot seem to grasp the concept of why one would consume alcohol. It is these very people, however, who have inspired the creation of a comprehensive study behind the reasons as to why those of us who do enjoy drinking drink. The following research was compiled with the aid of several friends one evening, who had agreed to keep me company while I took on the task of creating the report. While the original point of the study may have been to mark a new idea with each drink downed, for the sake of scientific accuracy, I will admit that the aforementioned format was not followed and that, rather, whatever came to mind followed to paper (otherwise known as “Word”).


Notice first the coherent sentences which, although they may offer an unfortunate peek into the insightful nature of our conversations, are at least spelt correctly.
1. Fuck Brain Cells
2. Achieving your grey wings; or chicken wings, whatever floats your boat.
3. Everybody’s down for a little vag. tonight
4. For the darkness!
5. Evenings of debauchery that begin with the Captain and end in the wrong end of town
6. Making friends with the homeless men who hide your alcohol and never getting it back
7. Being that “regular” at most bar’s cheapest nights.

While spelling and coherency are still intact, it is the punctuation of my erratic, repeated and all around unintelligent ideas that is no longer a necessity, but instead, a suggestion.
8. Everybody’s down for a little vag tonight!
9. Discovering the next morning that youre 200$ short of what you thought you had started with
10. Uncovering the fact that being very “uncovered” and sprawled on the floor is actually a lot more entertaining than youre parents had told you it would be

And finally, the very first admission of superiority!
11. Improvement of the awesomeness as the evening evolves
12. Being cheap and/or wishing you were so as to help your wallet somewhat
13. Waking up the next morning in the ER and wondering why youre parents look right pissed at you… in that “wrong life choices” sort of way
14. Enjoying your evening to the nth degree… the degree which means that your brain cells are much less developed than youre collegues

Here, the switch to believing that I am the center of the known universe is completed as, despite having admitted to conceit previously, sentences are no longer written in a contemplative “one” or “you” format but as the royal “we”- generally referring to myself. The very first signs of the slow and painful death of lucidity are also now visible.
15. Wondering if we can still get to the liquor store at two oclock in the morning
16. The consistently failed attempts at counting our number drinks
17. The realization that we have no idea what our limits are as we continue to hit the short (“shorts”/ “shots”; same thing.)
18. Realizing that pants are for suckers!
19. For achieving that classic drunk statement of “I like you guys”
20. Discovering that sexual limitations are truly only guidelines and that, in all honesty, everything goes
21. realizing that as a student, we spend much more money on alcohol than on necessities and that its well worth the expenditure
22. Understanding that work is one of those places where you deal with your hangovers

Not only are spelling and rational now a thing of the past, but any sort of decency as well; especially pertaining to very deep and complex philosophical issues.
23. Discovering that we h=are awesome!
24. Understaiding that sex s one of those things that comes with the title of being a “drunk”
25. Realizing, that as a creative writer, I have liscence to misspell EVERYTHBING
26. Drinking with natives leads to some exam FAILURE
27. Literally capturing an evening in a description of what happens when one sets out to describe an evening of drnkeness
28. Never mind trying to understand how retarded [people see the world, we know
29. Realizing that youre not quite an alcoholic, but rather a drunk, vas they are two truly spereate states of being (clearly, my attempt at vaguely intellectual vocabulary is a failure)
30. Coming to theconclusion that every and all activities are much, much more entertaining when a large amount of alcohol is involved
31. You aspire to reducing your station in life
32. cheers to fucking anything\
33. so long as somebody is retarded about me being ridiculous, than I am having fun
34. being drun k means you wale up and don’t understand a thing about the logistical discussions you had the night before
35. discoerving that your parents afre Pying more than thy dhsould for your eduion nd ger ersl drunkening
36. e

The above was not only an exposé of the very best reasons to drink, but an exercise in self-restraint; allowing so many glaring faults and short comings to remain in written material (particularly in that penned by yours truly) was quite trying. However, for the sake of science and the distribution of important research, I have stepped up and fulfilled my obligations to my peers. Cheers.

Seeking UnEmployment

The last couple of weeks or so had introduced me to a much-needed brilliant new story idea (although, admittedly, all of my ideas are brilliant) as I have found that, despite my best wishes, a steady alcoholic intake does not lead to the creativity many of the artistic type claim it does. Instead, it resulted in many unfortunately incomprehensible letters to faraway friends whom hadn’t been witness to a sober me in several months. So instead, between the sober banalities of the daily grind and an unwillingness to spot for my brothers developing muscles (of which, I would like to mention, I hold no jealousy- mine are much firmer anyway), I came to the exciting conclusion that I could detail my life as a waitress lifting plates. Just the sort of pun that I knew would beautifully grace the top of yet another one of my notes.

Unfortunately, I got the boot- and it was a solidly placed one at that. Obviously, I had yet to learn that opinions or basic disagreements with the unjust should not be expressed around women who get paid more than I do. Subsequently, I not only found myself lacking an income, but a solid story idea; after all, I could never lower myself to writing half-truths and invented facts… not without journalism course papers to fuel the need, at the very least.

Being unintentionally unemployed, I took it upon myself to sleep away the better part of the day, wallow in piles of chocolate bar wrappings and aspire to the drama achieved by the woman who had been knocked up by her boyfriend’s brother on Jerry Springer. I found myself near wishing to have been born into a trailer park so that I too could live the dream; fifteen minutes of fame would undoubtedly be much more satisfying on Maury than they ever would be on Oprah (either way, I don’t believe her viewers would be quite as appreciative of my promiscuity). Besides, my target audience would surely benefit from the numerous advertisements played during the aforementioned show to get them off of their respective asses and into colleges for continuing education. Which, as each highly unproductive day passes (unless, as some women might, you include tanning and baking on your list of daily activities), has become an increasingly attractive option. Perhaps it’s time I accepted that my lack of class is not only a thing to write about, but something to truly embrace. All I need now is to figure out where to pick up my employment insurance cheques.

Growing Down

The worst part, decidedly, about having reached adulthood and apparent “responsibility” is the sudden onslaught of a need to discuss the future. Girl’s nights have become the perfect place to discuss our potential weddings, hours on the job have become those devoted to forecasting my financial prospects, and even conversations with parents (despite how short lived they may be) now revolve around “plans, “hopes” and other sorts of horrifying concepts that really do not belong in the vocabulary of anyone under the age of twenty-five and, particularly, anyone with the mental maturity of a thirteen-year-old. It would have been nice had someone informed me that along with finally obtaining legality (in the larger part of the civilized world; alcohol-phobic states and provinces notwithstanding) that I would be handed a list of obligations and responsibilities. Fantastic.

At an age where my liver is still (relatively) healthy and un-abused, my skin still untarnished by the effects of tobacco and my cognitive skills yet unhindered by a steady intake of THC, I am in a prime state to ruin everything I have going for me. My future successes are something to consider when I can no longer keep up with my own capabilities to process alcohol. After all, planning is evidently not something I find myself able to do in the midst of a thoroughly enjoyable evening; otherwise, I would not find myself in need of being picked up from the hospital at two in the morning. At the very least, I have friends appreciative enough of my inability to function properly to be my “sensible” side for me.

Perhaps, however, I should concede to my acute aversion to any sort of commitment. After settling in with my girls the other night to fawn over a far-fetched love story and hearing afterwards that one of them had already discussed basic marriage plans with her current boyfriend, I came down with a small and sudden panic attack, much to the horror of the three of them; apparently, that was not the expected reaction. It should appear that other people enjoy preparing themselves to be committed to some sort of future, whether it be family or career oriented (as opposed to rehab). I, however, am very content committing to not having the slightest idea what I will be doing within the next hour. It is, after all, my prerogative to be a complete mess.

At my tender age, I have decided that my aspirations will take me no further than the next drink nor will my common sense serve to keep me out of trouble, simply alive. And although many of my peers may deny it, I will readily admit that the little voice at the back of my head is currently not occupied with influencing me in the right direction, but rather telling me that I am quite invincible (and thus far, the evidence has proven the voice consistently right). Who the fuck ever decided it was a good idea to make university students accountable for their own actions anyway?

Exchanging Bullshit

“So you were an exchange student, then?” says the interviewer, unwittingly indulging me in a favourite opportunity to exploit the fact. I smile and nod, explaining that I had a lovely time and that the cultural exposure had really opened my eyes to the world around me, had truly broadened my horizons. Thank God you’re not expected to actually tell the truth to employers.

The application process itself (involving a thorough discourse on myself; a topic at which I excel) is one designed to ensure that all exchange students will make diplomatic representatives of their countries and programs; coincidentally, each of us is endowed with well developed bullshitting skills. My arrival in Switzerland was comprised of jet lag, regular headaches (as the realization that I was subjecting myself to a foreign country alone without any prior knowledge of the language ultimately led to some minor self-abuse) and the introductory camp. Four days after having left home, I found myself wildly gesticulating to a cabin full of other muted fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, attempting to communicate, until our mentors sat us down and got us drunk. Bienvenue a la Suisse!

While popular opinion may measure culture by the number of black-clad artisans decorating cobblestone streets or the degree of confusion the average person experiences while exiting the local museums, my sort of culture was the kind that resulted in a not-so-“fresh” morning wake-ups on park benches or in the corner of the train stations. The people whom my friends and I would randomly go home with after the bar, the coke they snorted and the realization at five o’clock the next morning that we had no idea where the fuck we were defined my exchange. I learned more about myself while wandering drunk through the streets of Geneva with nowhere to stay for the night than I ever did from the hikes my host family grudgingly took me on. Truthfully, how the fuck else would I be as comfortable with ridiculous situations as to not freak out when I find myself trying to find my panties in an unknown house the next morning?

The best lessons, however, were not those I picked up on how to survive an adventurous evening, but rather that there is something to be said for an ability to talk your way out of such situations or their unavoidable consequences. I personally believe that the capability to calm down a knife wielding acquaintance will further my survival more successfully than that of naming the differences between Renaissance swords. The type of cultural exposure that my exchange friends and I sought out could not be legitimately labelled as anything but life experiences; just not necessarily the sort of experiences our parents thought they were paying for.

Cheers to the Nostalgia

As the year has come to close, it’s pertinent that we bid a proper farewell to EC and the memories; cheers to the nostalgia! (NOTE: This must be done with either a drink or joint in hand- preferably both)

Cheers to Wild Weekends, Wasted Wednesdays, Thunder Thursdays, Fucked-Up Fridays and the other nights of the week that we have all celebrated but won’t tell respectable people about.

To the hundreds of ounces smoked out of nearly every window of the building, to the hot boxing of our rooms and to the RA’s who have both recognized that Mary Jane is pretty tight friends with a fair number of us and those that still don’t know what it smells like.

To five hours of uninterrupted Shisha in the common room and a year’s worth of spontaneous sessions around campus.

Cheers to the only bunny in living memory to have more friends in EC than men donning fishnet. (Who’d have thunk?)

To the exotic Raphael, who successfully snuck into, and stayed in, the building to wish a rather bouncy Happy Birthday from his waxed and muscular bottom to the tip of his naked self.

Cheers to the numerous and creatively broken doors; from backwards handles to general jams, from flyaway punches to the battery of permanent markers that have made exiting and entering our home all that much more adventurous.

To the four-hundred-thirty-seven invented facts submitted by the four, five or six EC students stupid enough to register for Rosa Harris-Adler’s class.

Cheers to our honorary building mates, who have successfully confused the fuck out of a sizable percentage of those of us who actually live there.

To Dormcest and the inability of the campus male-female ratio to inhibit driving teenage hormones; what would the year have been like without knowing you shouldn’t shower in the right-hand stall or lay on the second floor common room’s carpet?

To the poor purple birthday cake that ended up ground into the carpet, but eaten despite the fact.

Cheers to burning toast and the subsequent four fire alarms that served to keep us on our toes; aside, of course, from those who were still too saturated from the night before to get out of bed.

To the hygienic capabilities of a concentration of university students that not only failed to keep us smelling sweet, but concluded in the circulation of coughs, snivels, mono and (last, but most definitely not least) lice.

To dancing on washing machines and raving with the driers.

Cheers to the constant nudity, parties lacking pants and, of course, Tit-Shock-Therapy on the third floor.

Take ‘er EC for the summer!

A Guide to Playing and Laying

Edited October 2008; pre-Martlet.

Being the class act that I am, I chose the very delicate topic of rugby and sex for my main feature. Writing class is definately fun as fuck.

Mud, blood and glory has only taken me so far, really. It can usually get me that tackle, the team’s respect and about as much as a high five from the guy that I would have hoped to secure by the night’s end. While the glory may be all well and good for potential conquests, it’s the mud, blood and rugby that tend to off my evening game. Try as I might, it seems to be quite impossible to score off the field when that sexy skirt only serves to highlight the bruises and rake marks left by my female competition on the pitch.

Don’t get me wrong; being seen as more than an average woman with a waist and a pair of melons can be more gratifying than the game-saving hit, but it leaves an impression that doesn’t lend itself towards the femininity needed in certain male-female interactions. Sure being introduced as a rugby player may instantly win me eye-to-eye respect, but when shaking hands with a man of exemplary muscle, I can’t be confident I wouldn’t rather be faced eye-to-chest instead. Unfortunately, it appears that being seen as one of the guys often puts me in a category that pretty firmly supersedes sex; if anything, shouldn’t my ability to keep up with the guys generally apply to my libido too? One gentleman I had been chatting up at a party heard that I played the game and punched me in the arm, saying “Shit son, that’s cool.” Not necessarily the reaction I had been hoping for.

Convinced I couldn’t be the only one whose sex life was compromised thanks to the game I play, I seized the opportunity to reassure my ego at one of my UVic team’s pre-practice stretch circles. Flopping down on an edge of the grassy ring, I mentioned my ongoing lack of action to Sarah, one of the many girls who contended regularly with bruise patterns and had long since forgone the preposterous idea of wearing skirts. After first trying to tell me that she had not, in fact, had any sort of trouble, she finally conceded to having primarily dated other rugby players. Her small town home Port Alberni has all of one rugby club with mixed genders; a cocktail of players who love the game and don’t mind having to watch out for the accumulation of bruises and scrapes while in the midst of action.

Hearing our conversation, a couple of the other girls piped up and, much to the relief of my sensitive pride, informed me that playing rugby and getting laid are polar opposites for estrogen endowed players. “Leave the lights off!” shouted Thalia, one of our forwards, shaking her head at my apparent ignorance. “Can’t show off your bruises ‘till later, T.” Apparently there were rules to the late night game and my beloved war wounds were a trademark no-no; after all, why wouldn’t I have shown off the trophies I collect on the pitch?

“Bruises aren’t sexy,” confessed my friend Neil, cringing like he had just been forced to tell me that Santa isn’t real. And according to the guys I had gathered for the sake of explaining away my recent failures, neither are biceps or ripped legs, which is something they just know would be overdeveloped in a female rugby player. Damn it. In the name of thorough research, though, I decided to even out the playing field by getting my eager volunteers to choose between two equally sexy women- one of which played my sport. Ultimately, the five or six guys who wandered in and out of the room unanimously snuck in their votes for the one who didn’t play; a choice most of them couldn’t explain. The exception, mind you, was left to my classiest gentleman friend who, upon throwing in his two cents, shrugged and explained that the rugby player was probably gay, leaving the choice obvious. It seems our reputation as players precedes us.

Despite the decided unattractiveness of trained muscles, however, it was determined that a rugby girl could still make for a good evening; a good “Vegas story.” There is apparently a little something in that swagger we get as we walk off the field that announces not only our arrival, but our inherent dominance. It has to be the right sort of evening, though, for one of the guys to be interested in submitting themselves; being out-muscled by their female partner is generally not something that makes them feel appropriately effective where it counts. Consequently, Jeff, an ex-player himself, declared that “rugby girls scare the shit out of me.”

None of this was very surprising according to my loving father and sexual selection expert, the good doctor Petr. After having survived the usual string of questions about laundry and grades when I called home, my mom ventured into “when are you bringing home a boyfriend?” territory and I mentioned my recent attempt to unravel the mysteries of my sex life. Hastily avoiding the correlation to my ability to score, I began by relating some of the reactions I had gotten from my male friends around campus and was answered by the scholarly, but unfortunate, response of “That actually sounds about right.” Leave it to dad to shut down my plans on winning the female game.

According to my father and the bearer of bad news, sexual selection dictates that the most attractive attributes of either sex are signs of vitality and vigour; clear skin, a straight walk, shiny hair- cleat rakes and fingerprint bruises excluded. Mammalian males, he says, are on average larger than their female counterparts and biologically designed for combat and protection, leaving a man with a beefy woman feeling about as useful as a deflated rugby ball. While we, the women of rugby, may pride ourselves in our ability to outflex the competition and come off covered in the glory of a fair fight, it’s, them, the men of our affections, that aren’t falling for the looming threat of being beaten by their fair maidens. And although it may sting the ego to discover, it does explain why I’ve never managed to score on evenings when I’ve had to explain why only one eye is shadowed purple.

Being introduced as a rugby player also serves to mark me as an aggressive woman which, for a man who (despite what he thinks) is innately seeking a partner to raise his young, is a key sign that I would not focus all my attention on the survival of our young; even if I would gladly focus on the production of them. “Why do you think some cultures keep their women at home?” dad says, explaining that the male is instinctively seeking out a female who will not be distracted by competition or be able to undermine their status in male social circles. I suppose it might be time I stopped showing off my biceps and my capacity to drink rum like water. On second thought, it might also help if I didn’t spend most of my night out dancing on speakers with all limbs flailing.

As enlightening as my dad’s biological insight was, it only served to further confirm that the best way to win the game is to pretend you don’t play it. The trick, it appears, is to maintain an un-muddied, un-bloodied female image until after the guy has been assured that he is not hooking up with a “ham beast.” It might be time I reconnected with my femininity. Then again, what determines that a passion for playing the game, any game, isn’t sexy in itself?

The Unnecessary Accessory

The moment I discovered that class is completely unnecessary would have fallen sometime between a cigarette and shot of Jack Daniels this Easter weekend. It may have been the rum in my veins or the three foot cushion of smoke around my head, but I stumbled upon a point of such clarity I nearly shocked myself (how else to make incredible discoveries, but to stumble?). There I was, reeking of lung cancer and decked in my favourite pair of triple XL sweat pants, when it occurred to me that I loved every minute of my drunken laziness. Who needs class when you can have fun?

Stumbling into those who have managed to keep their drink in a glass and under seven percent, whose mascara hasn’t migrated to their cheeks and who have remembered to take a shower before going out always serves to highlight my inability to function like the rest of society. Too much of my life seems to be documented in those sort of unfortunate pictures I wouldn’t want posted on the internet, let alone shown to my mother, to pretend that I have any sense of elegance whatsoever. The best adventures have been the most compromising (what the hell is it in alcohol that makes your clothes fall off?), the messiest and the most hostile; I can’t help but be disappointed if I crawl home in a presentable state (not that my parents have come to expect as much of me anyway). Class is for the appropriate; absurdity is for those who know how to have fun.

I find that, by now, I have lost the capability of devoting my energy and attentions to those who choose to judge (regrettably enough, this could perhaps be attributed to my close friendship with the Captain), so I choose not to give a fuck. Besides, I have long since elected to believe that I am loved for my complete lack of class and rational; infamy is fine by me.

Thank You for Calling

Slipping into student life has not only altered my definitions of socially–acceptable existence (regular showering or eating things other than carbohydrates are no longer categorized as requirements, but time consuming luxuries) but that being flat broke sucks. Somehow, despite my earlier beliefs, spending your time studying or consuming alcohol does not lend itself to a full wallet. Discovering that my meagre funds were slowly funnelling out of my savings account and into my liver, I decided that it was past time to invade the working world. So invade I did.

The glory and triumph of being marginally successful only lasted so long; working in a call center may have successfully ruined my faith in humanity. One would imagine that informing people of the reason as to why their money is no longer available to them would at least evoke some sort of measure of thanks; unfortunately, this is not the case. Upon presenting a surprisingly large number of customers with the specifics, I am all-too-often met with a firm front of disbelief and a contrived conviction that I am making things up just to fuck with them. Congratulations retards; that is exactly what my plan is.

Despite the very solid fact that I am actually paid to pass on the correct information to those who assault me with questions and concerns, common belief dictates that those of us who you call for information, in reality, have none. The number of times each piece of knowledge is repeated to each individual client only serves to punctuate our uselessness to the customer, as well as the uselessness of their cognitive abilities. Subsequently, it turns out that most people have no idea how many numbers to read when asked for eight, nor that I actually need to hear them to be able to know what they are.

Unbeknownst to most callers, the mute button is one of our favourite tools. While they are kindly reminding me that honesty is important to the health of a relationship or asking what on earth we are doing as a country to charge such high rent, I get to giggle silently on the other line without penalty. The mute button could only have been installed to allow us to remain professional while informing the customer that all of their funds have gone to porn sites, alcohol and True.com. The customer may be mid-rant, but we are catching up on the latest gossip with our coworkers; you may think that you’re complaint about the fees charged is one that sets you apart and gains our respect, but it’s about as significant to my day as the sandwich that I ate earlier. In fact, less so (it was a damned good sandwich).

Thank you for calling customer service, please hang up; we really don’t give a shit.

Save This, Greenpeace

Growing up, my brothers and I were subjected to a household of a mere five TV channels, not including the French one (which doesn’t count either way simply because it isn’t the superior language of English). Sunday mornings spent flipping desperately through the few stations we had access to taught me that not only are Sundays the most entertainment-devoid day of the week, but that there are a lot of causes you can support for the low, low cost of $19.95 per month. Moving to Victoria, however, has expanded my childhood knowledge and taught me that nearly everything which has suffered injustice is worthy of a band of official supporters. Personally, I have been accosted by those for abortion, against abortion, for sex, against whales, for marijuana, against evangelical movements and for polyamoury, amongst others. It has come to my attention, on the other hand, that there is a gaping hole in the repertoire of causes for creatures.
What of the paramecium?

Somehow society and the intellect of the scientific community have been avoiding the terrible truth of the abuses that happen in high school and first year biology courses everywhere. While I am generally not one to sign petitions or protest for any cause that does not directly involve me, my life or my personal comfort, the abuse of the paramecium is simply appalling. Compared to the imprisoned paramecium, the supposed ‘suffering’ of whales is an over romanticized notion of non-existent neglect. Whales already enjoy the freedom of nearly 68 percent of the Earth’s surface area along with international protection as opposed to the unregulated airtight glass slides that the paramecium is imprisoned within. Millions of the creatures are subjected to constant observation and manipulation under deathly bright lights; all of them are left to dry out and die. These injustices have become so normalized that somehow the end of feminism is a greater cause than that of stopping our teachers and roommates from continuing on this massacre of the noble single-celled creatures.

It is time that Sunday mornings (long abandoned by the hopes of even remotely interesting programming) be dominated by unfortunate and ignored causes, such as the promotion of meat consumption and egocentrism, for the low, low cost of a working TV. Forget starvation in downtown Calgary; I would rather spend my beer money on saving the paramecium.

Racing Stripes

Dear Fashionable Gentlemen;


We know that you primp, preen and hone yourself to as close to perfection as your physique and modern cosmetic technology will allow you. By ‘we’ I mean the female population in general and we, the part of the female population that appreciates your efforts to catch our interest, can completely sympathize with the pains you put up with simply for our benefit (I suppose it’s really all to your benefit if you are getting the attention, but that’s beside the point.). Regrettably, a sizable share of you has taken the task of preening too far. Luckily for you, however, a large proportion of the above mentioned women who, as much as this may personally bewilder me, more than simply value those of you who are well groomed, but swoon over men with perfect tans, frosted tips and that oh-so masculine diamond earring hanging off of your earlobes. Fine; I’m sure your matching tans and Luis Vuitton purses will look great together.

Over time, I have learned to repress my gag reflex (as it really is rather unhealthy to heave so often) when I happen to run into those of you who spend more time on your two inches of one hundred and fifty dollar hair than I did on my entire outfit before heading to the bar that night. Despite obvious distaste and a general disapproval for men who remind me more of my female friends than of those with bits that dangle, I have come to accept that you will forever be a part of the social scene. The past three years or so, however, have brought a new idea to the ‘fashion’ stage that has left me completely bewildered and near incapable of speech. It is just that horrendous.

Why the fuck would you shave racing stripes into the sides of your heads?

Do they make you go faster? (which is not something you should be advertising to get sex anyway) Is it perhaps an accelerator to your love lives that I have failed to notice? I suppose it is plausible that in my distaste for men like you, I have somehow managed to block an innate female draw to men with stripes by their temples. That must be it! The patterns you dropped your last pay cheque for (or had your mother cut in her kitchen) must be some sort of archaic natural symbolism designed to draw us females into your arms and bedrooms. Better yet, it is entirely possible that those outlines were not even a result of conscious design but rather that of a vicious street fight in which you were repeatedly knifed across the temple and nowhere else, thanks to your incredible testosterone drive and the inevitable defeat of your attacker.

…Right. As a gesture of peace, however, I wholeheartedly allow you to take those excuses as your own and run with it if you still feel the need to flex your waxed, cheddar-coloured arms and zoom by us ladies at the bars. Whenever you see any of us smiling at you from the dance floor, try not to ponder too deeply into whether we’re smiling at you or if we are really reading the message shaved into the side of your head; you’ll just end up lowering your hard earned self-esteem.

The Don'ts of Doing Me

Time and experience have taught me several lessons on what I will and will not accept… mostly on what I won’t. The oddities that men seem to think are sexy and the various things that they will bring up in the midst of a romp session are sometimes so damned amusing, that I have decided to document them.


1. Don’t ask me to say, scream, or moan your name as, chances are, I have no idea what it is and I generally don’t want you to feel too terribly about yourself if I am not quite done yet.

2. Don’t deny me the opportunity to take a shower with you. What are you; gay?

3. Don’t swing yourself in front of my face whilst wishing me “Merry Christmas.” I thoroughly chew the meat I find in my gifts.

4. Don’t call me up to help you heal your friend’s bleeding and broken heart with sex. As much of an experience and story as it may make in the future; the delicate way in which you drag me by the belt loops towards the big bed in the middle of the room with him watching is not the way to get my blood pumping.

5. Don’t threaten me with handcuffs if you do not plan on delivering. There is a reason that I am around you at all and without the handcuffs, that reason is very hard to remember.

6. Don’t insist that I compensate for your inability to keep a condom full. Get used to it or go home; I like to sleep with dirty men but that does not make me willing to ditch my clean record.

7. Don’t ask to keep my panties. Not only is that weird and brings to mind the Swim-Fan type, but I paid for those panties and I damn well intend on impressing more than just you with them.

8. Don’t try to lay me on your parents’ bed. That is the bed where they most likely conceived you and/or recreate the events of your conception regularly. I want nothing to do with your parents anyway, so don’t find a way to somehow include me in their sex lives.

9. Don’t dry hump me like you would your favourite space between the pillows; I have a dog and he can do that just as well as you can.

10. Don’t ask me to go out while I am straddling you. And please don’t correct my belief that you want to go outside to finish up in January. I would rather think your mind is on the sex than on possibly seeing me outside of the bedroom.

11. Don’t tell me that I look just like your girlfriend during our threesome. The reason I was invited to join in is because I am obviously hotter than she is.

12. Don’t blame me if your grandmother sees the scratches on your back; it means that you were at least doing something right.

13. Don’t tell me about the seven year old daughter you found out you had three months earlier. While her pictures might be endearing and the story may be quite cute, I do not plan on engaging in reproductive behaviours with someone who has already proven to be unexpectedly fertile.

14. Don’t make it a competition. I will win.

15. Don’t comment on the bruises left behind by the last guy; you know damned well that I just heard your phone call to one of your other call girls.

16. Don’t sweep me off the sidewalk for an aggressive kiss and then tell me not expect it of you in the future. That is like opening the door of the chocolate factory to Charlie, slamming it in his face and later anticipating a return visit.

17. Don’t ask me if the sex means anything to me. This is generally a good rule of thumb, but, for your sake, specifically refrain from asking me this after having met the day before.

18. Don’t hope to get anything out of me after telling me I belong to you. Don’t hope to get away alive, either.

19. Don’t bite my arm. Biting may be sexy, but the arm is generally not one of the erotic female zones and the fist sized bruise you leave behind evokes more sympathetic looks than my ego can handle.

21. Don’t try to hold my hand after sex. Unless I like you (and I probably do not) or plan on laying you again within the next five minutes, I do not want to be touched or cuddled by you.

22. Don’t invite your roommate into the room for a toke while I am still naked under your sheets.

23. Don’t cover my neck in so many hickeys that I look like I have a severe case of melanoma. I am not one of those women who enjoy wearing scarves inside.

24. Don’t hang yourself out the front of your jeans at the beach as the shock the tour group of septuagenarians may experience could only lead to several fatal heart attacks. You would not want that on your conscience, would you?



None of these "Dont's" are fictitious; I do fully intend to make fun of every man I’ve ever slept with... they deserve it, after all.

Blood Spatter on the Rose Petal of My Heart

Please, recognize the humour in this... this is by no means the way I would spill my heart out on the internet (which I'm very pleased to say I've never done). I think if I were to do as much, I would have to be no older than 14, and the final result would be much more obscene. Kindly see 'Option C' for further background.



today marks the third dark day in a week of oppression. i do not know how my soul could possibly take this much cruelty and confinement, but somehow i think i have inverted myself so as to protect the preciously soft material that forms my heart. i can not bring myself to understand the motives of the bodies that gave me life. yes, i say bodies because i believe it to be quite impossible to so thoroughly lack compassion as a proper live human being; and worse yet, to show compassion for the vampiric creature with whom i share no more than name.

that beast believes herself to have the power to speak of my whereabouts to our unfortunate creators, despite my obvious instructions and faith in her silence. she can consider herself cursed from this moment on- she no longer has a brother. and thus, while she lays unsuspectingly in the laps of my guardsmen; i will exact my revenge. how many people, i wonder, has she told of her youthful bedwetting problems? … all the while they dote over her despicability and ignore my need for affection; even if the ones i require care from seem to lack that human quality.

“i’m not okay,” to quote the brilliant gerard arthur way who, incidentally, is slandered inappropriately by those who can not seem to bring themselves to understand the way he touches so many broken souls. where would i be without his beautiful music? unemotional and more alone than i am now, without a doubt. i would still be mourning that cruel bitch who had the nerve to steal the pure virginity of my lips and then tell the clandestinites of our institution of conformity that i did not suck face properly. how is my soul ever supposed to find its bloody twin in this tainted environment! speaking of conformity; we the clandestinites have made a movement for individuality and expression; no more shall we capitalize. it is an elevation of one idea above another, the escalation of one’s blood over another’s, the assertion that one sibling is better than the other. and so capitalization will become a thing of the past.

my spirit is now too heavy with emotion and i have bared my beating heart for too long; i must leave you until later and cleanse my blood of today’s injustice.

**dark~nymph**



~*ps. i got tix to good charlotte’s show! =D itll be nothing but babes!*~

The Pool-Boy I Call Rugby

There are some days that come around when I sit at my desk, massaging sore legs and wonder how normal people do it. Not “it”, the very subtle allusion to secretive human (and surprisingly enough, the natural biological form of reproduction) S.E.X., but actually the “it” of not having any. Granted, it would be a slight exaggeration of the truth were I to claim that I got some on a regular basis from a wide variety of victims, I mean, attractive volunteers, but if I’m somehow lacking at least I get worked over frequently by the Pool-Boy I like to call Rugby.

The moments when I come home covered in mud, bruises, or scratches and babbling happily to my roommates are, oddly enough, the times when I find myself favoured with more blank looks and raised eyebrows than usual. Is there something wrong with enjoying a little blood and dirty work? Undoubtedly, despite what your mother or pastor would tell you, it’s the sweat and the resulting ache that land and keep survival of the species on everyone’s mind. So why wouldn’t I spend eighty minutes rolling through the mud with a ball? The women I play with may not be exactly my idea of a good tumble, but the balls and adrenaline that my Pool-Boy brings to the field are more than worth forfeiting my ability to walk the next day (which is something that gets left at the door before decent playing time in the bedroom anyways).

While I’m sure that knitting the sex drive away may be some people’s visionary answer, I personally feel it lacks a certain sense of rush, of excitement, of… While I may not be expressing myself clearly, generally, other options could only result in boredom. Subject yourself to some mud and bruises first, and then tell me that your preferred Pool-Boy is stamp collecting.

An Ode to Specificity

As many of our wizened instructors and others have taught us over the years; details are what we call 'tools' in writing



So I was just thinking about this thing that happened pretty recently and thought, you know, I could tell you about it. I am not sure if this is actually something you may want to hear about but, the point is that you won’t believe what happened. Anyways, I was at this place (you know, the one with the thing?) and all of a sudden this person comes up to me and starts talking about this stuff that happened a while ago. To be honest it was kind of weird and it was all a little vague, but I think he was talking about the time that thing happened to the people down south a little ways. It was something about these chicks at a school who did some stuff to a guy and then something happened at a time a little later on and now nobody wants to talk about it. The point here is that some group of people ended up getting a little drastic and then there were some big changes in the way we do things and those chicks ended up getting sent away. So the person that’s talking to me about this smelt like something I knew that I know and I remembered that time that we did the thing together, which is an absolutely ridiculous connection to make, but we were at the same place that those chicks were and so technically, we are intricately connected to those events.

Crazy, eh?

Holiday Lessons

A list of the lessons learned by one Miss Tanysia over two weeks of Christmas vacation;


1. Sleep is for suckers.

2. Chaw should not be left tucked into your drunken lip during a twenty minute car ride, especially without a spittoon and after having told the driver that you had spit it out already.

3. One of the better ways to measure beer is in yards.

4. 3 o’clock in the morning is the best time for a full-fledged, bacon and cheese-eggs sort of breakfast.

5. The many layers your ass is covered in during skiing tend to become a hassle after eight cups of coffee and two glasses of beer.

6. Christmas shopping is best done the day before, with all the malls closing in half an hour and no idea what to get for the four relatives that have blessed you with their presence this year.

7. Finding that you are in your sweat pants and not your pyjamas Christmas morning and wondering how you even ended up in bed is the inevitable result of seven bottles of wine and your father’s insistence that you simply must try his cognac.

8. There is a limit to how much food you can consume in one sitting... that limit, however, has yet to be found.

9. You really do get more attention when you are dressed in only half a shirt.

10. Eating strangers’ pizza is perfectly acceptable when stumbling around outside the bar and calling for taxis at two o’clock in the morning.

11. While common belief states that following three men home alone will ultimately lead to death, experience states that you will only be subjected to two hours of them prancing around in Hot Gossip clothing… although seeing that much concentrated metrosexuality could kill you.

12. Male strippers are unfortunately small in the pants; even when your extreme sexiness has them standing at full attention.

13. Your parents will not take you skiing when you called them at five o’clock that morning to let you in the house.

14. Mature individuals hate when vast quantities of liquor are consumed on the train.

15. Do not agree to go to a party in Bowness with one of your old friends if you plan on being at home anytime before sunrise.

16. The people who work 24 hour convenience stores never fail to be talking at high speeds on their cell phones, but to whom are they talking to at three o’clock in the morning? The only other people who aren’t sleeping or incoherent: convenience store employees.

17. Remember to apologize profusely if someone who carries a knife thinks you insulted their family (or, better yet, their ability to take care of their family) sometime last spring.

18. The only way to fully appreciate a drug house is to make yourself comfortable on the couches and watch ShowCase grade porn for four hours.

19. The bottle depot is a worse place to be when the alcohol is not sitting well in your blood the next day than a morgue after a two week power outage.

20. Loonies stick to strippers and, oddly enough, their twats too.

21. Upon going to gay dance clubs, the constant disappointment of seeing hot men and then realizing they aren’t interested can get depressing; it is best to go armed and intoxicated.

22. It is advised that if you are going to make fun of people in the gondola, on the slopes, and on the chairlift, you do so with friends around as it does not make you any new ones.

23. When you are at the liquor store and joke with the cashier about the amount you are buying, have someone around later who will ensure that you actually were kidding when you said it was all for you.

24. Next time you have an old friend start jumping, screaming and yelling about how much she misses you- try to remember her name.

25. Hot tubs and New Year’s Eve do not ever go well together.

26. When you are too drunk to smoke, you are too drunk. Period.

27. New Year’s Day is decidedly the worst day in any living memory; the time has come to replace the aforementioned day with another night, designed primarily for sleeping.

28. You look like an idiot when you accidentally die your thumbs the same colour as your hair.

29. The guards at airport security giggle when they find three bottle openers upon searching your purse, almost as if it isn’t something they see very often.

30. The ability to keep yourself entertained by finding patterns in the carpet is no longer a talent to be laughed at; it becomes a necessity when your plane is three hours late.


The University shall now be known for detoxifying one Miss Tanysia. Who would have thought?

Real Degrees

When my parents pushed a "real" degree (as they like to call it) into my smoke stained hands, I will readily confess that I ran from the house and towards my local coffee shop. It may have been the idea of basement labs and formaldehyde that provoked my outrage or perhaps the devious suggestion that I may even meet some smart men while I was at it, but I couldn’t help but cringe from the thought. I would much rather sit by the ocean gazing off into the distance trying to find the inspiration in construction cranes than dig through pig cells to discover the meaning of life. Interesting it may be (the process of pig cell extraction would admittedly have me sitting on the edge of my seat), but I have a hard time believing any of that is necessary to my own unplanned future.

Oh sure, the science types may be characteristically nasal and bound to be incapable of human interaction, but even I couldn’t deny that there is a certain prestige to a person who has endured hours of lecture willingly. Occasionally while sipping coffee black enough to chip teeth, I’ll notice the frazzle of my roommate’s hair or the glaze in her bloodshot eyes. Further inspection (or in my case, yelling “What the hell happened to your face?”) has taught me that there is a price to be paid for the esteem of intelligence and that “hard work” is apparently more than just a word yelled by parents. However, even after months of my own hard-won research, the belief around my house remains that exam aneurisms make for better stories than the ones that find their way onto my pages.

Getting calls from home only serves to highlight the difference in view points, between what I call work and what my parents call lying around on my ass. My father will ask what I plan to accomplish during this waste of time, my mother will insinuate the question of when I mean to land a ring, and to both I shrug and explain that it really just takes time to uncover the true meaning of inspiration; you can’t rush an artist.

Besides, who wants a smart man?

Apparently

My writing apparently lacks anything of substance, any sort of plot, or anything that would make people jump up and see the world in a new, brilliant sort of way. But somehow this morning, between my right and left pockets and the daily struggle to find my keys, I realized something so fantastically enlightening that I had to rush to my computer to share that information with the world and my facebook friends. I, the ambitious young writer woman that I am, don’t really care.

On a daily basis I plop down (and I mean ‘plop’ in the most literal sense of the word as I’m not one for delicacies or intricacies or even punctuality) beside a student who is sure to be the next big hit. After excusing myself, I can always look over at my prompt comrade and see some sort of sparkle of ingeniousness and new ideas, a small dreamy smile and a face that I’m sure will adorn not the back, but the very cover of their next book. They’re just that good.

Though it’s the little twinkle that will one day grace at least two different Oprah shows I notice when I first look over to gauge my competition, it’s only once I’m thoroughly bored and after a full ten minutes that I start to examine more that just the sparkle. Often times these prodigies and professor’s favourites come complete with a hereditary squint, hairy knuckles, or hair compliments of grandma’s hairdresser and while they’re busy thinking up new ways to approach politics or in depth analyses of the human relation, I explore much more relevant issues. For instance, how did they get to be so hairy? Why wouldn’t they simply go get waxed? Apparently, however, this sort of thing is neither earth shattering nor is it deemed highly thought provoking.

Well fuck that shit.

I may lack sparkle. I may never write a story read in gr.11 English Lit, or even be the author of a novel read by the neighbourhood book club, but I am determined. Determined to continue writing letters to broken bones, plays about nerds because I think it’s funny even though no one else does and stories about crazy ladies who get strangled by their nine cats. I will be as apparently unthought-provoking as humanly possible, as irrelevant as the mouthwash on my table, and as inconsequential as the girl who sits in class and writes about her genius rivals. How this inspiration came to be in my pockets, however, I have no idea.

Dear Finger

Dear Finger;

It is now obvious that for the past several weeks we have had somewhat of a compromised relationship. Although you must be aware that I respect your demands for space and private time, I would appreciate your cooperation in the immediate future. Understandably, after suffering such a personal injury, you can not be held accountable for your incredible touchiness and sore disposition, but it was the incredible numbness and your retreat from my life that hurt me deeply. The way in which you suddenly "broke it off" from me, even if for as short a time as it may have been, left me so dazed and disoriented that, without you, I found myself near incapable of such simple tasks as tying my shoes. In complete honesty; I was wounded.

Now, the time in which I implore your return to my life has arrived; I have missed you sorely. Investigative attempts from friends "behind the screens" have informed me of your moves to put yourself back together and I would like you and your many talents to be back in my hands as soon as possible. I am willing to put everything at my disposal into supporting you during this period of healing. As much pain and discomfort as you may have caused me during this short foray of yours into self inflicted personal bindings and away from our adventures together, I understand that I must continue to treat you gently in hopes of your full return to stability. I promise to treat you cautiously even though you have been keeping yourself isolated from the world in such an impenetrable casing.

I know that with patience you will be on hand again, but I do not know how much longer I can care for myself as your sudden departure left me quite debilitated.

Please, piece yourself together again.


Thanks,
Tanysia

Option C

As I like to think of myself as an aspiring writer of many and numerous talents (the most notable being the ability to consume the amount of liquor necessary to kill a small horse), the past several weeks have prompted me to begin pondering how precisely do I ‘aspire’? Does this involve me campaigning small magazines to print pieces on the local artwork, the perfect placement of a beret on my head as I smoke and scribble in a small black notebook, or would sitting in my pyjamas in front of my computer after rugby practice count? Personally, I prefer option C.

Option C, however, is one of the few points on any young wannabe writer’s list that gets them literally nowhere. The thing, though, is that I do thoroughly enjoy a good challenge. And it was just as I was enjoying complaining about this desire for difficulty, the resulting complexity my life would become over the next forever and whining in the general direction of a theatrically brilliant colleague of mine, that she kindly suggested I start a blog.

I hate blogs. The entitlement they lend to people to tell stories about how terrible cleaning the cat vomit off of their shoes was is ludicrous. I should be the only one entitled to spin that tale. So fine! I decided that I would blog and I would blog well; so well that I would burn an imprint amongst the properly aspiring writers who spend their vacations baking and actually remember their New Year’s. At this point I rolled out of bed, ready to reveal my frogprint-clad ass and the glory that is my literary works to the world, impressed with the brilliance of my plan and the resulting quashing of the emotional blogs 14 year olds write in their spare time.

Now, the only roadblock to my destiny is the conception of a name to properly title my aspirations… and unless I'm about to call it "Blood Spatter on the Rose Petal of My Heart," that is much more fucking difficult than it looks.