Option C

Dragon & the Boy

2011-10-03T21:03:00.004-07:00

Dragon was having a great day. He’d woken up to the glitter of sunshine on his gold pile, a crow cawing in the near distance and a healthy rumble in his tummy.

Mmm, he thought, I wonder what crow tastes like. Dragon stretched out, the hard arrow tip of his tail tapping the back of the shallow cavern, his wings squishing just so against the grey rock walls and his neck stretching out and out into the sunshine and the fresh air. He let out a thunderous yawn and SNAP! closed his teeth around the crow on the rock just to the right of his cave entrance.

Mm… chickeny. What a wonderful appetizer, I simply must keep a few more crumbs out to keep these crows coming.

When he said crumbs though, of course Dragon had meant bone crumbs. He was a very successful sheep catcher and often brought the bones home to crunch on and kept the soft fuzzy pelts to roll in when he was done with them. Not that he liked how soft and fuzzy they were – he was a dragon after all – but he did like how the cotton shined up his scales; it really brought out the blue. Dragon may not be old enough to be the biggest or the strongest or the richest dragon out there, but he was determined to be the prettiest.

Another grrgle grrgle escaped from his belly and Dragon knew it was time to crawl out of his warm nest of gold coins and look for a real breakfast. So he scooched the last half of his body all the way outside, bunched his right feet together and his left feet together and leapt into the sky, away from his mountain. He left a rock placed just in front of the cave entrance to guard his treasure. With a whoosh he was up in the blue, scales flashing sunlight as he wove through the air like firesmoke. Wings folding in and out, Dragon stirred the clouds into little wisps, leaving a rippled white trail in the sky the only sign of home.

As he flew, he spotted movement on the muddy winding road that connected the closest village with the one a few mountains over. He saw the trundle of an open straw wagon and several spots of the travelers’ rounded brim hats. Not a knight in sight! Dragon chuckled – which sounded like metal banging on stone– and snapped his wings open to catch air and stop short. None of his villagers were smart enough to keep Dragon out of their gold.

He curled his neck downwards and dove straight for the villager’s wagon. Lazily, he puffed small balls of fire at the field around them. Dragon never bothered burning people – they yelled too much and smelt funny (something about all that bathing) – but boy did they ever scare easy. He swooped straight down at the abandoned cart, ripping all four paws through the hay and catching several bags between them.

“Mine, all mine little people!” he yelled, streaming fire through the air. He laughed to himself, leaving the villagers hiding in the grasses by the road. Not a single one of them was even remotely Knight-like – Dragon’s sworn enemy. Of course, it couldn’t be possible that some silly, shiny human like Knight could scare a dragon, especially not this Dragon. Dragon had teeth and claws and fearsome, ferocious fire.

Once he was back flying straight towards the village, the muddy trail shrinking behind him and the clouds sliding over his wings, Dragon bent to look at his catch. He secretly hoped he’d find something no dragon had caught before.

Seeds? Nope. He dropped the first sack, watching it explode on the ground below. Dragon poked a talon in the next sack, finding laundry, then the next, finding more seeds. Nope, aaand nope. Both bags splattered on the ground like rotten fruit. He picked at his last sack apprehensively and howled in excitement, which sent a flock of birds cawing in fright from a tree below. Gold coins and lots of them. Yes! These are going to look just go-oh-orgeous in my pile. He picked at a few of the coins, examining the rough edges. These will be perfect for rubbing on… I’ll put ‘em right under my tail for night time itches.

Dragon’s pleasant thoughts were quickly interrupted by a grrgle grrgle rumbling through his stomach and rattling his wings. What better way to celebrate new gold than with a juicy bite of sheep? So he swished and swooshed his wings and moving this way and that, approached the centre of his village. He swooped down on the occasional thatch roof house to drop fire balls. With the crackle of popcorn, roofs burst into flame and little people ran out into the streets. Dragon saw the shiny shoulders of the Knight run out of one of the huts, shaking a sword in his direction and he laughed, dropping one more ball of flame. Silly, shiny human. Knight behind him, he was out of town in a few more swoops and soon came upon the best sheep farm this side of his mountain.

Aha! he thought. Delicious! Just over the last green hill, was a plump looking group of sheep ready for breakfast. Dragon shook out his shoulders, curled his back left claw around his treasure and dove. Down he went, streaming towards one particularly fat sheep. Out came his front feet, ready to grab his meal, out went his wings, braking Dragon to the perfect speed. From between the baaing white fluff of his breakfast popped the blonde head of a Boy, who was holding a boy sized sword sticking straight up at Dragon.

“Grraaagh” yelled Dragon, inches from breakfast and smelling grossly clean human skin. Dragon wrapped his front claws around the sheep. He growled and gnashed his teeth at the Boy to scare him away. Then Dragon felt a poke between his teeth and bit down; he yelped when something sharp slid into his crusty gums. He had no idea little boy was so pointy! Shaking his head until his ears rang, Dragon flapped backwards and upwards and away from the sword and the Boy, but as he hit the clouds he noticed the Boy clinging to his sheep.

“Get off, Boy!” Dragon roared. “Get off of me little Boy!” But the Boy climbed from the sheep onto Dragon’s paw where, despite Dragon’s shaking, he stuck. So Dragon flew up as fast as he could and he spun ‘round and ‘round until his tail was wrapped around him and even he was dizzy. The Boy, however, was still clinging tighter than a monkey to Dragon’s scaly legs.

“Fine, stay there!” said Dragon. “I’ll eat you when we get to my cave! I don’t want to drop little boy arms and legs on my way home and waste a perfectly good meal.” But the Boy didn’t say anything, so Dragon unwound himself and flew home, shaking his legs the whole way home to see if the Boy would fall off.

By the time he got home, Dragon’s wings were heavy and his teeth were hurting where the sword stuck like a toothpick between his two sharpest teeth. Carrying gold and breakfast and a little Boy were much more than he was used to and Dragon was hungry. He landed with a thump on the ground, threw the sack of gold deep into his cave and dropped his sheep onto the dusty sunshine of his plateau. First, though, he stretched his neck down and under his chest to examine the Boy stuck to his front leg. Between his beautiful blue scales, he could feel the Boy’s fingers digging in.

“Watch my scales Boy. You’ll pull them off like that.” Dragon snapped his teeth, wincing, and shook his head. “Worse than a giant tick.”

Dragon watched the little Boy dart towards the rock at his cave entrance, but ignored him – the Boy was too much bother before breakfast. Then he straightened out his neck and tore into his breakfast anyway. As he crunched through his meal, Dragon leaned left and right until he found the space at the back of his mouth without a sore spot. Within minutes he was belly flat on the ground licking the last of the bones clean.

Mm-mm juicy, he thought and pulled the last of the pelt toward himself. Dragon rolled over, spreading his wings like bed sheets over the sheep fur and, sighing contentedly, blew smoke rings into the sunshine.

Now I can’t have a Boy poking around my treasure... Dragon thought and craned his neck toward his cave. There, behind his favourite entry way decoration (the rock), a blond little head stuck out on a skinny neck. Ugh, I hate little people. “I can smell you from here, Boy.” Dragon blew a small ball of fire and rolled it the Boy’s way. He wrinkled his nose, growling at the pain in his teeth; if the Boy was right in front of him, what on earth was stuck poking the crusty roof of his mouth?

“I don’t smell. You smell,” the Boy called from behind the rock.

Dragon laughed his metal laugh and rubbed his wings on the sheep fur.

“Silly Boy, I smell like power!” He leapt off the ground, flipped through the air and landed on all four feet, winding this way and that as he approached the Boy. He blew smoke across the plateau until it pooled around the rock, the Boy and himself. The Boy darted, running straight at Dragon, through his legs and around into Dragon’s cave.

“You can’t run away from me!” he growled, curling his neck under his body and through his legs. Dragon jumped and rolled through the air, tumbling head over tail, snapping the whole time. Then Dragon snapped down too hard on nothing, the air squishing through his lips like popping bubbles and his teeth clattering together with a clank.

“Ow-oww-oww!” he howled, steam whistling through his nose. And Dragon stopped and he folded his wings and rolled into the cave, over the piles of gold. “Ow-oww-oww!” Dragon put a paw to his mouth, making little waves in the steam floating out his fist sized nostrils.

Dragon dropped his rump onto the coins, peering cross-eyed at the end of his snout. Through wisps of steam, he saw the Boy peek out from behind a pile of golden statues, blond hair glittering in the light sneaking through Dragon’s cave entrance.

“Hey Dragon? You okay Dragon?”

“Ow-oww-oww,” whimpered Dragon. “What did you do to me little Boy? I’m going to eat you after this! I swear, I will eat your skinny little arms and chew on your skinny little legs.” And he blew the biggest ball of fire into the back of the cave that he could muster, watching it roll over his coins and his crowns until it disappeared on his pile of statues.

But the Boy didn’t answer, and Dragon lay there for a few more minutes, neck swinging this way – to peek into the tall piles of treasure – and swaying that way – to peer under a particularly large statue – until he realized that the Boy was hiding from him. So Dragon jumped to all four paws, sending gold clattering in every direction and he clawed through the pile for the Boy.

“Come out, come out wherever you are!” he called. “This is my cave, little Boy. I’ll find you.”

But he heard nothing; the Boy was silent. So Dragon harrumphed, letting a great ball of smoke escape from his nostrils and padded outside to roll over his sheep skin and soak up the sun. A little bit of time and sunshine would surely cure the ache between his teeth.

Dragon had just began to doze when he heard a tiny crunch crunch come up right beside his ear. He opened one big, round eye, only to see the Boy’s pink nose right up close to his pupil and let a surprised cloud of steam.

“Dragon? I just need my sword back Dragon,” the Boy said, reaching both hands slowly towards Dragon’s open mouth.

Dragon jumped. He leapt back from the pelts that he was laying on and the Boy’s outstretched arms to land on his paws. He hissed, streaming smoke out from his nostrils and toward the Boy, who was waving it away with his hands.

“What do you want?”

“My sword, Dragon. It’s stuck in your teeth. Dad will never make me a new one if I don’t bring it home.” The Boy stood just where Dragon had been sleeping, a few steps from his shallow cave’s entrance but far enough that none of his treasure was visible. Dragon roared and dropped a ball of fire to splat on the plateau.

“Did you touch my treasure?”

“No!” cried the Boy, who’d run away from the fire and was standing firmly atop the rock. “Please, Dragon. My sword is stuck in your teeth.”

Dragon shook his head and snapped his teeth. Sure enough, his gums still hurt; the little Boy must have been telling the truth, no bone crunching ever hurt like this. So Dragon stopped blowing smoke and took a step forward. It’s not like that soft tiny human could do a dragon with such magnificent scales any harm, anyway. Dragon had yet to hear of any people hurting dragons ever, really. There had been one or two killed by knights, but they were just the weak ones.

“You’re not a knight are you?”

“No,” said the Boy, still standing on Dragon’s rock. He crossed his arms across his chest. “Knights are mean. And they smell worse than Dragons.”

Dragon laughed, the sound echoing into the mountains. “Okay little stinky human, take your sword.” So he walked up to the Boy and opened his mouth, careful not to breathe too hard should some fire escape.

The Boy reached up slowly, two hands out, and wrapped them right around the boy-sized sword handle that was visible just between two of Dragon’s sharpest left teeth.
“Ow!” he yelped, quickly letting go of the metal handle. “Can you turn down the temperature?”

Dragon laughed again, and shook his head. “It would be much hotter if I decided to roast and eat you. Which I just might do if you take much longer.”

So the Boy grabbed a hold of the sword again and began to yank. Dragon howled, but the Boy kept pulling. With the sound of squishing snow balls, the sword popped free of Dragon’s crispy gums and out into the air, shining.

“Are you bleeding?” asked the Boy, peering into Dragon’s open mouth.

“No.” Dragon let out a snuff of smoke. “Dragons are much too strong bleed.”

The Boy, coughing as he waved smoke from of his little blue eyes, lowered his sword until the tip rested just on the edge of his rock. “How come you have so much gold, Dragon?”

“I wanted it.”

“How’d you get it, Dragon?”

“By taking it from silly people. Like you.” And at that, Dragon stuck his snout in the Boy’s chest and pushed him off the rock. “I don’t have time for your questions, go home before I get bored and eat you.”

Dragon had never heard of any dragons talking to people without eating them – or at least caging them to keep for pets. This Boy, though, was much too much of a nuisance. He turned away from the Boy and went straight back to his pelts to enjoy what was left of the sunshine before he went for dinner. Maybe he could even round up a flock of crows tonight; that would certainly be delicious. As Dragon plopped down, facing out from the cave and watching across the valley in front of his mountain he noticed a very peculiar thing. A tall, waddling, shiny thing that looked vaguely like a human. Dragon sniffed. It certainly smelt like human.

Oh great. Dragon thought, rolling his eyes. It’s Knight. Now it’s going to take forever to get around to dinner.

“Boy, what is Knight doing here? Did you tell him where my cave is?”

The Boy scrambled to the edge of the cliff, dragging his sword through the dust.

“No! Blech!” Boy wrinkled his nose. “I hate Knight. He’s always so mean to me.”

Dragon looked over at the Boy, raising a gigantic, scaly eyebrow.

“When he comes to Dad’s shop for swords, he teases me for being little.” The Boy stood a little straighter, watching Knight work his way up Dragon’s mountain. “Dad makes the best swords in the land.”

“Dragon!” called the Knight, voice echoing over the edge of the plateau. “I’m saving that little boy, you terrible beast!”

Dragon lay there and laughed, his clanking laughter rolling down the hillside with the smoke rings he was blowing. Knight kept climbing upwards, clinking with armour until he reached the top of the plateau, where he doubled over, hands on his knees, to breathe.

“Dragon,” he puffed. “I am taking the scrawny little thing there. Boy, come here.”

“No.” The Boy crossed his arms over his chest.

“Come on, Boy. I’m the hero, here. I’m going to save you, I’m going to take the glory, and I’m going to get a free sword from your father. Now get over here.”

“No!”

But Knight had caught his breath and started toward the Boy, reaching for him. “I am not leaving without you. I’ve already had to scuff up my shin armour on this silly hike. Your stupidity is only going to make this more difficult.”

Knight dashed at the Boy, wrapping his arms around just before the Boy kicked and screamed, the sword trapped at his side under Knight’s big arms.

“I’m the hero here, Boy, stop your kicking!”

The Boy kept yelling and wiggling and Knight kept struggling, all the while backing away from Dragon.

“I’m the hero! I’m the hero you skinny idiot! Me, hero! My glory, my sword! Me, I’m the hero!”

This is ridiculous, thought Dragon and he took a deep breath, blowing a gigantic ball of fire straight at Knight’s legs.

“Aaaagh!” yelled the metal-clad man, jumping away from the fire, clinking and clanking as he tried to get out of the flame. As Knight jumped back, he dropped the Boy, who rolled over the ground with his sword still in hand, waving it wildly and coughing in the smoke.

“You’re dirtying my armour, Dragon! You can’t dirty a hero knight’s armour!” yelled Knight, brushing dust of his shoulders.

Dragon leapt straight into the air, arching over his fire ball and straight at the knight, pouncing with all four claws on top of him. And Dragon pinned him to the ground, ripping off all his silly metal pieces (none of which was gold and therefore utterly useless to Dragon) and with a snap, Dragon bit Knight’s shoulder.

Dragon gagged. Disgusting! He had always thought people would taste nasty. He swatted the now-naked Knight in the head, and lifted himself off of Knight.

“Get out of here, or I’ll eat you!” Then Dragon paused and puffed his chest out a little, streaming the biggest fire ball at Knight that he could. Knight screamed and jumped to his feet. Abandoning all of his armour on Dragon’s plateau, Knight ran stark naked all the way down the mountain side and off toward the village.

“Come on Boy,” said Dragon, holding out a paw. “I’ll fly you home.”

Rugby Poetry

2010-11-19T00:55:00.001-08:00

So I was going through old piles of poetry for a project, and check out what I found!

smell the pitch.
green.
dirt, rain, pain.
paths traced one hundred fold,
trail broken skin.
heart bounding, beating
racing
over shredded field
torn grass.
blood; mud
grunt through barriers
break bones, tear muscle
grind pores into ground
shove; heave
line by line
win blade by bloody blade.
burn lines with sweat.
salt earth with victory
scream
taste pitch
queen of the green

.

Top Illegal Bus Stop Activites

2010-10-07T21:08:00.003-07:00

Oh, the bus stop theme. It was all part of content creation for a class of mine, so bear with it. I swear no more.

1. Smoking. Not to offend the millions who campaign against smoking, but honestly, there is rarely a better feeling than sticking it to the man by smoking not near or around the bus stop, but directly within the prescribed five meter non-smoking radius. And, of course, there’s the added benefit of successfully killing time.

2. Drinking. Specifically, Underage-Drinking. Remember those days? The ones where “going out” meant sitting at a bus stop with ten friends on your way to a “house party” in someone’s basement and chugging a mickey of cheap vodka? Yeah. Now tell me all those times that you had to hold a friend’s hair back as she puked off the side of the bench didn’t make you feel like a bad ass mo-fo. Thought so.

3. Pot. It may just be the social nature of the drug, or that the smell of marijuana overrides the general foot-like stench of the bus your about to embark, but pot takes the cake (mmm… cake) when it comes to bus stop drugs. Trust me, serious considerations were put into a variety of other illicit substances – but, really, no one wants to snort lines off a bus bench.

4. Graffiti. It’s almost like bus stops were designed to be doodled on. And scratched into, and painted on. They’re the ultimate urban poster board of Sally + Joe 4Evas, cartoon faces, and local trademark tags; not to mention an excellent source of time killing literature.

5. General Destruction. The bus stop offers all sorts opportunities to take part in some good old fashioned wreckin’ stuff and, by wreckin’ public stuff, you get to really partake in some serious illegal activities. Go for the gold and send a bat through the glass, bring a screwdriver and dismantle the “bus stop” sign, bring spray paint and take graffiti to the next level and just paint the whole, bloody stop.

6. Sex. There’s a bench, shelter from the elements and – uhh – easy access. And that’s without the thrill of “riding the bus” in public.

7. Prostitution. None of the previous options quite illegal enough for you? Then take it all the way and “hang out” at the bus stop – auspiciously wearing thigh-high leather boots and short shorts that allow for under-ass – regardless of whether you’re male or female. Thanks to the high traffic nature of a bus stop, you’re bound to develop a fast-paced, publicly illegal business in no time.

Place

2010-10-07T21:05:00.002-07:00

Each tap on the canvas above is uneven. Some are loud and heavy, hammering oh-so-slowly, oh-so-steadily from bowed branches. Others are tiny pitter-patters that fill the silence between bigger drops, falling from the skies beside the trees – every knock a reminder of just how dry the blankets are inside. Inside, away from the rain and the mist and the wet of the ocean, the tent is warm. Beaten cloth circulates breath and body heat like a thermos, until even the tip of my naked nose is comfortable. The damp is meaningless.

Mulch brown walls muffle the light, filtering what’s left of the sunshine until all there is to see are outlines of arms and legs and sweaters rolled into corners, collecting the runoff of human humidity and effectively ruining the possibility of staying warm once breakfast rolls around – though the uniform grey makes time impossible to tell and the down blankets render it irrelevant. The foot of heavy of heavy air settled on our faces leaves space to cushion each pointed drop and every half beat of rain, keeps us from unzipping the flap door and leaving our canvas cocoon. So the morning is forgotten.

Route 6b W 4 W

2010-10-07T20:59:00.000-07:00

Route 6b Northbound, 8:37am, W 4 W

You: the blonde, fresh out of high school chick with the compact mirror and green purse sitting next to
Me: the young brunette in office attire

Hey, we all need to do our makeup in the morning – and with your face, frankly, I get it. I myself have been known to touch up my lip gloss from time to time, squished between an aging alcoholic and a school bound punk riding the bus on my way to work. So I didn’t bat an eye when you took out your compact and generously reapplied your eyeliner – okay, maybe I raised an eyebrow when you took out the foundation to smear over your numerous blemishes, and my lips may have started pursing when I saw your hands slip “subtly” down your shirt to readjust your assets. But for Christ’s Sake, tweezers? Really? Jesus woman, do you really think we want to know how much of your eyebrows you need to pull out before you resemble anything more human than a dolled-up squirrel?
Anyway – you all-natural beauty, you – I wanted to apologize for standing so abruptly when some of your eyebrow hairs landed on my blazer. I really didn’t mean to bump the sharp end of your tweezers into your eye like that. My bad.

Formal Apologies

2010-06-06T11:19:00.001-07:00

Dear Hush Nightclub Management and Security Teams;

I am writing to formally apologize for my unfortunate and inebriated actions at approximately 2:10 on the morning of this Saturday June the 5th. I understand the legal and business implications of having an unauthorized person entering the area behind the bar, though I assure you that my motivations were single-minded and quite sincere in regards to getting myself water. While I am happy that no injury came to Hush personnel, other patrons or myself, I regret the inconvenience I caused and – of course – the personal embarrassment that comes from drunkenly arguing over a glass of water. I apologize for my indiscretions and fully comprehend and accept any consequences.

Sincerely,
Tanysia

Reasons I could be a Lesbian

2010-04-26T13:57:00.003-07:00

Reasons I could be a Lesbian:

1. Scarlett Johansson, Sandra Bullock and Jessica Alba
2. Between the rugby, kick boxing and fine arts communities, I would have plenty to choose from.
3. Diagrams and explanations of the female anatomy would no longer be necessary.
4. No longer would I have to fear “The Dutch Oven.”
5. My sandwiches would be made and brought to me.
6. The house would be clean and tidy by the time I got back from work.
7. Chocolate, Advil, and backrubs around “that time of the month” would be available without explanation.
8. Good, old fashioned tits and ass.

Reasons I could never be a Lesbian:

1. Men.

The Capable Essay

2010-04-16T16:58:00.007-07:00

I was a fat child. No, seriously. Though I may look good in a pair of spandex shorts now, were you to have gone looking for me in junior high PE class, you’d have easily found me at the back of the pack, panting and huffing as I jiggled around the soccer field. I spent years with a stash of chocolate bars covertly placed between my diary and Barbie collection and hours arguing with my parents over whether or not it was appropriate for me to have seven cookies for snack. And despite my best and loudest efforts, those bastards dragged me out to soccer practice twice a week, with my round little body over their shoulders screaming, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

Fortunately, my parents were not only more stubborn than I was, but well aware of just how good of an incentive an ass-whopping, wooden spoon can be. So I went to soccer practices scowling. And swim meets pouting. Then basketball tryouts, where I knew I wasn’t going home anytime soon so, fine, I’d shuffle towards the net and I’d try jogging to defence. Hell, the other girls were doing it and they looked like they were having fun. Then I scored a couple of baskets, dribbled around a few girls and wrestled a ball or two away from the other team and I began lumbering out of the gymnasium like I owned it.

“Dad, did you see that? That girl swung around when I grabbed the ball! Did you see my break-away? There was, like, no one there.”

At practice the next week, I bounced out of Dad’s car, through the gym doors, and tied my laces super tight for extra speed during scrimmages that night. I was running faster and dropping weight, but not everyone is as lucky as I was to have a father willing to confiscate anything that kept me in the house and a mother able to prod my butt out the door with her wooden spoon.

In 2004, right around the time I was getting into basketball and off the couch, almost ten percent of kids between the ages of two and 17 were obese, according to Statistics Canada. If I’d had a Body Mass Index of 30 or higher – BMIs comparing height to weight ratio – I would have been considered obese, and might have been part of that statistic. These results, on the other hand, do assume that the excess mass is fatty and not muscular, but considering how long I’d spent lolling in front of the TV, I doubt I had much muscle mass to go on.

That same year, CBC reports that 23.1 percent of all Canadian adults had BMIs over 30 and later, in 2008, a staggering 26.7 percent of adults in the United States were considered obese. Not just overweight; obese. If I remember anything from grade five, that’s approximately a quarter of all adults in North America. A quarter! That means every fourth adult getting on the bus in the morning is statistically likely to be about one thirds straight body fat, and I could have easily been one of them.

I was fifteen and playing for my high school basketball team when the math teacher across the hall started dropping hints that I aught to come out for rugby practice. I would shake my head and tell her that I was a baller not some “rugby” player and, besides, I was just getting good at sprinting my way down the court. But then she told me that I was of a build that would be advantageous on the field, that she knew I wasn’t unfit, and besides, didn’t I regularly get kicked out of games for being too hands-on? Was she recruiting me? Shit, did she just say she thought I was fit?

I decided a tryout or two would be worth my time, tackled a few girls, made the team and fell in love with the game. Even at that age, I would get off the field and vibrate happily for hours. This is not surprising, though, considering that the endorphins produced from a match’s hard running or heavy hitting are about the same as what get released during orgasm and actually act on the same neural receptors as narcotics like heroin or cocaine. Any rugby player will tell you that the adrenaline thrill that comes from a tackle which lays out the opponent is the sort worth banging your head for. That season, three of the most devoted players ended up with concussions.

These days I could probably get away with saying that I work my ass off at the gym; realistically though, strength training hasn’t done a thing to diminish its veritable size since I started seriously hitting the weight room three years ago. I had let a couple of months of cafeteria food and then a determined coach get to me and – Poof! – there I was, doing weighted squats and dumbbell curls for an hour-and-a-half three days a week. With every push up I counted and every weight I added to the barbell, I could feel my body strengthen, my muscles grow and my overall health improve.

After spending rugby practice running horseshoe-sprints (don’t ask), I came home to lie on my couch, revel in the glory of sore muscles and gloat in front of my roommates – just a little bit. I put a granola bar between my teeth, picked up my Women’s Health magazine and flipped straight to one of those articles that tells me how awesome I am.

“Dude!” I yell to my roomies in the kitchen around the oats in my mouth. “I burn an extra 120 calories a day for every three pounds of muscle. Did you know that? God, that’s awesome.”

A blonde head sticks out around the corner with the sort of “duh” expression the girls I live with have come to reserve for me. “I’ve seen your pipes, T. All you fucking do is eat.”

It’s true. Between the gym, rugby practices and kickboxing classes, I get hungry. And when I get hungry, I get weak, tired, indecisive and – worst of all – I became a straight-up raging bitch. Getting enough of the right type of nutrition all the time is not only necessary, but unfortunately complicated for any athlete. Do I get enough protein? What about my complex carbs? Does that triple-decker sandwich have enough vitamins, acids and fats to keep me going? Or was half a block of cheese not the right choice? High-intensity athletes can need up to twice the amount of nutrients as a non-athlete – like the football player who needs 150g of protein daily as opposed to the average 75g – and are put at risk of micronutrient deficiency (which results from restricting diets) and the female athlete triad (disordered eating, amenorrhea, and osteoporosis). And let’s not even get into just how much of my paycheque goes directly to food.

I pop a piece of bread in the toaster, grab myself a banana to munch on while I wait and flip back to my magazine. On the next page, I’m told that weight training not only has me eating more, but I get the added benefit of more stable joints. Sweet. Curious, I asked the physiotherapists who work with the varsity teams at UVic what they thought when I went to the Athletic Training Room later that week before practice.

“Oh I am a massive advocate of weight training,” says the girl wrapping tape around my finger. Nodding at the stretch cords and balance boards that litter half of the room, she tells me that the more you prepare your muscles for unexpected movement, the less likely you’ll be to injure yourself.

“Why do you think we get so many first years in here?” one of the trainers pipes up as he massages a calf. “They haven’t had enough time in the weight room yet.”

Thinking back to high school, I did spend a lot more time on the bench – and it had nothing to do with how slowly I made my way down the court. I remember rolled ankles, cramped muscles and pulled groins. When I was off-season too, I can recall a few times that my back spasmed on me in the pool or that I nearly popped a knee skiing. Granted, as a kid I was hardly strong enough to pick myself up off the ground if I fell on the slope and often had to get my frowning father to pull me up.

These sorts of injuries translate into the home for everyone, not just athletes and Colorado State University recently ran a one-year study comparing injury rates and BMI. They concluded that the higher the mass-to-height ratio, the more injuries were reported by the 2,575 adults who participated; the most (26 percent of men injured and 21 percent of women) being reported by the extremely obese. An entire half of these injuries, such as falls or acute overexertion, happened inside the home.

Take my mom, for example. Though she has never been obese, she let a few years at home with the kids get to her until she herniated a disc in her back. The doctors only shook their heads and told her, “Lady, there is essentially nothing wrong with you, but your back muscles are so weak they can’t hold themselves together. Get your fat ass to the gym!” (Or something along those lines.) Twelve years later she’s still working out religiously and now is so fit she not only looks 15 years her junior but could beat up most women that young anyway.

Of course, I would be lying if I said that exercise is the trump-all prevention for injury. Quite the opposite, in fact. The very point of athletics is to push the body to its limits and do it better than the competition. Runners end up with athlete’s foot for spending too much time in their shoes, tennis players dislocate shoulders swinging rackets for hours a day and basketball players develop shin splints just sprinting up and down on solid wood floors.

These injuries are not just normal consequences either. Every single woman I have ever played beside, regardless of the sport, has continued to play through an injury to “tough it out” and win and has often caused more damage for doing so. I have to admit, I’ve done it myself. I once dislocated a finger during a rugby game, popped it back in, and continued playing. I had to spend a month and a half punching without my left hand at kickboxing classes, but that didn’t stop me from trying. When I complained to my trainer about how bloody long it was taking to recover she looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, “Honey, you play rugby.” Oh yeah.

At home for Christmas holidays shortly after I’d made a lightning bolt out of my finger, I spent the better part of the first hour in my parent’s kitchen with my mother clucking over my tape-covered hand.

“Nishy, you really should be careful. What if it doesn’t get better? We’ll have to chop it off.”

“Yeah, but look what I can do!” I dropped to the linoleum floor and proceeded to do more full push-ups than most women my age and definitely more than my parents dreamed me ever capable of when I was fourteen. And to be honest, my first basketball practices mostly involved me holding my body off the floor from my knees, trembling slightly at the thought of actually lowering myself to the ground with my own strength. Dad, watching from the kitchen table, asked what sort of work out schedule I was running on these days and nodded along as I rattled off my weekly routine.

“So long as you still have time for school,” he said. “And take a break if your body needs it. Don’t over-exert yourself, sweetie; it can be just as bad for you as no exercise at all.”

He’s right, of course, though I still have a hard time believing it. The problem with exercise is that the hormone release and the resulting “runner’s high” experienced makes it surprisingly easy for a serious athlete to over-train. One of my best friends, for example, has spent the last eight months doing nothing but training to improve his fight statistics and – though he doesn’t see it – is experiencing some considerable symptoms as a result: insomnia, moodiness and a compulsiveness to exercise. And after every two months of hard time at the gym, his body has developed a tendency to crash completely and leave him so sick he can hardly crawl out of bed.

Getting back from the gym over the break, I flopped down on the carpet in my living room and channel-surfed my way to a rerun of The Biggest Loser. I adore the way pitting a bunch of people against each other in a weight-loss competition is ridiculous and extreme, but still manages to showcase the hard work I admire. Plus, you know, I get to feel like a rockstar just watching it. Thirty burpies? Whateeeever. Two hundred crunches? Puh-leeze. Not to mention that the episode that I’d found was one from the beginning of the season, when all of the contestants range from extremely to morbidly obese and simply getting to the show counted as exercise for them.

I watched as they set up a challenge, huddling the players as close to each other as their girths would allow and explaining that they would be walking up a set of slowly rotating escalators to find out who could stay on the longest. Great, I thought, popping baby carrots into my mouth. This is going to be the most exciting show ever. They all waddled up the stairs, took their positions and, once the buzzer sounded, began huffing their way upwards. Two minutes and thirty six seconds later, it was over. Seriously. I just about choked on my carrot. That was it? That was all that an entire quarter of the North American population was capable of?

Fuck the bruises, sore muscles and scars that I am covered in; at least I can move. Thanks to the dogged-asshole insistence of my parents, I never forgot how to run after a ball, or how good sweating feels, or how to bike to school or make my muscles scream. I get to walk down the street knowing I look good doing it and knowing that I can run to catch my bus. I could have been another one of the 5.5 million obese Canadian adults. I could have run the greater risk of premature death, diabetes, heart, stroke, breathing problems, and arthritis. But instead, I feel strong. I feel healthy. And I’m capable of rocking short shorts while kicking some serious ass.

This Side of West

2010-04-09T11:53:00.004-07:00

So, a while back I was called in by the up-and-coming ambitious names of the writing future to help out and write a few random things for their literary journal, This Side of West. Yeah, me in a journal. Who'd a thunk? Nevertheless, I raked something marginally respectable together for them to publish. The book is now available for the low, low price of $12.95 (I think?) or - if you use my guest bathroom - you can read my copy for free on the can.

*****

I’ve always liked to imagine that I’m worldly. It makes me feel good, you know? Sitting around my buddy’s ash covered table, twirling a peeled beer bottle, I’ll whip out references to my foreign friends like they’re some kind of celebrity.

“Oh, you know my friend Eduarrrdo,” I’ll say, rolling the “r” to accentuate his exoticness, “was just telling me he might meet me in Prague.” Propping my feet on the adjacent plastic chair, I’ll switch the topic, asking someone about their friend from work because, you know, I wouldn’t want to rub in just how traveled I am. Not outright, anyway.

It takes that special sort of occasion to let myself indulge in full-on, egocentric story telling. I’ll slur my way through a recounting of that one time, in Schwitscherland, when I smoked pot on the train and went to see bears in a pit. And the crowds will ooh and they’ll ahh and they’ll proclaim a new round of Beer Pong in my honour, and I’ll feel awesome.

Then, someone will lean on my shoulder, spilling cheap rum down my cleavage, and suggest I write a story about it.

“Oh, well, the, ah, keyboard could never do such a story, um, justice,” I’ll say, waving down their protests and insisting that my travels are almost too epic to be written down. Then, I’ll retreat behind the plastic cup-covered table, and turn my attention to the crooked projectiles of a friend’s ping-pong ball and away from my ineptitudes as a writer. At home later, I’ll look wistfully at my laptop, before I stumble and decide it’s time to sprawl on top of my covers.

When morning and the hangover comes, I will be no more able to type the story than the night before, regardless of how much more accurately I’d hit the keys. Really, all I’d done was get high and look at bears. Of course they were Swiss bears and it was European pot, but that’s nothing more to write about. Anyone six shots deep would have thought I’d been to the moon, seen a dragon – without a helmet – and lived to tell the tale.

So I leave my laptop out of it, forget that I fail to find inspiration in the setting sun of Schwitscherland, and pick up another Canadian.

“Did I ever tell you that Froweeen wants to visit when I’m in Egypt?”

Curiosity

2010-03-25T14:24:00.002-07:00

Every day growing up, I would hear the same thing yelled at me over and over again. “Stop asking so many damn questions!” Honestly. You think I don’t shut up now? Imagine me six-years-old. I wanted to know everything, understand everything, touch everything, smell everything, try everything, hell I even wanted to taste everything. Building with a second door? “Mom, why does that building have a second door?” Man with a muzzled dog? “Dad, why does that dog have a cage on his mouth?” And when he sighed and told me something about keeping its mouth shut (and then going on to mutter something about buying one), I’d look back at the dog with a small “oh”.

“Do all people have dogs with muzzles? Can I have a dog? How old do dogs get? How many kinds of dogs are there? Can I touch that dog? Have you ever eaten a dog? Can I eat a dog?”

The problem is, not a damned thing has changed since I hit puberty and moved out of the house. I swear to god, were you to give me the option of a million dollars or a shoebox with mysterious contents (What could be in it? Flight tickets? A lease to a house in the Caribbean? Oh! A lizard? What about a billion dollars?), I’d be hard pressed to choose the million. And I’m not exactly rolling in dough.

The other day I stumbled upon a tray sitting on a pillar outside covered in mysterious potato-like lumps (Why were they outside? Why were there so many? And on a tray? Were they edible? Who would have put them outside, were that the case?). Naturally, I stopped dead and side tracked to go pick one up. I poked it and squished it and smelled it a little, but just as I was breaking it in half, a man stepped out of the building beside me.

“Put that down! What – did you just fucking think you’d go help yourself to something to eat! Throw that out! I can’t use it!”

Flabbergasted, I backed away from the plastic tray, potato-hunk in hand and told him that I had no idea it was his and had no intentions of eating it. “But… what is it?” The man, however, had huffed his way back through the door without even the courtesy of telling me and I spent the rest of the day wondering what on earth I had just picked up. And the worst part is that I still don’t know what the fuck the thing was.

All that being said, I got a message the other day from a guy I haven’t talked to in two years (I had to ask myself, what’s he doing now? Is he still in Calgary? What does he do with his spare time? How old is he, again? I wonder if he still goes out for drinks.). It was a short, sweet, simple little note telling me he enjoyed my writing. Dope. No, really – it totally made my day. But it made me wonder (apart from what pieces he’s read, whether he usually reads, if he’s been creeping on my facebook statuses, etc.), how many people actually read these things? Honestly. I get so many completely random, unexpected people tell me that they have, in fact, read some of the shit I post online that I really, really, really wonder who reads this. Am I imagining all of this? Am I posting stories to the vast, electronic emptiness that is my future career? Are these people even real?

So, please. Let me know? Because it is driving me up the motherfucking wall.

Viceps

2010-03-24T22:06:00.003-07:00

The instant I see his wiry frame turn the corner, a smile splits my face and I launch myself in his direction, hurtling into a bear hug.

“Codyyyy!” It’s been way too long. He drops his arms around my waist and asks, grinning, if I’m ready for a beer or seven.

“Yeah, dude. How was your summer? Any crazy stories? How were the chicks? Oh man, I have so many stories!”

Cody opens the door and I follow him under the red neon signs and into the Thursday evening crowd. This pub has never failed us; we’ve been getting drunk together here since we turned legal three years ago and it’s the first place I go every time I’m back in Calgary. He swings his jacket onto the wooden back of one of the small chairs to the side of the room. Jesus, his shoulders are benefiting from all that fight training. I follow suit and sit across from him, smacking my palm on the solid table and demanding he begin at the start.

“Of my trip? Or of my women?” he asks, raising a slim eyebrow and I smile; he knows me disgustingly well. I can’t help but think like the men I’m so in love with. I’ll clink beer glasses to a well-executed tackle and take a punch in the shoulder for making a crack at the size of a buddy’s manhood. I’ll weasel out weekend blow job stories and throw darts with the best of the boys; hell, I might even be the fucking champ when it comes to being goddamn vulgar. But I love good gossip.

Cody’s chosen a great spot; the guy facing me from the table behind him is rocking a faux-hawk and a wicked jaw-line – almost like Mike’s, actually. Cody leans in, head narrowly missing the low, dusty lamp, and tells me about this one time at a beach in Puerto Vallarta and this other, after a bad case of food poisoning.

“So there I was, making out with this hot Australian at four or five in the morning and she’s got one hand down my pants when suddenly I realized, ‘Shit! Gotta go!’” he laughs. “Hah, yes, I know: terrible pun. I knew you’d like it. I tried to make it happen after that, but every few minutes I had to run, and there was no way I could explain that gracefully.”

The waiter butts in and I order a jug of honey brown, tilting my head slightly in his direction and sliding a hand up my neck. If only every man I knew could fill a shirt that admirably, thought I’m pretty sure I would get a lot less done were that the case.

“Did I ever tell you about my boss in Spain?” I ask after the waiter‘s left with our request, and Cody shakes his head, leaning back like he’s apt to, waiting for me to rattle off another story.

“Well, Paco – how typically Spanish is that? – Paco just loved women. He was the kind of guy that would forget we were talking the instant one walked by our bar. Granted, I learned a lot of different ways to say ‘tits’ in Spanish.”

Naturally, this provokes a brief vocabulary lesson and we sit there throwing dirty foreign words at each other loud enough to hear an offended gasp come from the couple in a booth across the room. Sneaking a look, I wonder what kind of tablette de chocolat the jaw-line guy one table over might be sporting. Last time we got together, Mike wasted no time throwing his shirt down to show his own off.

“Anyway, Paco. He was so bad that whenever I bent over to pick something up he would stop to watch and then ask me whether I‘d be inclined to help him do inventory later.”

“Did you?” Cody asks; the sort of question implying he’d already assumed so.

“Nah, too old. He was pretty good looking, though. And Spanish, awesomely Spanish.”

Cody smirks, hand waiting on top of the empty green coaster.

“Did I mention I love Hispanic women? They made me want to stay in Ecuador forever. Maybe I can find one to polish my door knobs and handle my broom stick, if you know what I mean. Anyone else in Spain?”

“A couple - oh, thanks.” The waiter’s back with our beer and filling glasses. He has the most steely pipes I’ve seen in a long time; I can just imagine his phonebook-ripping skills.

“Did you just lick your lips?” Cody asks once our server is gone.

“Pff, no.” Yes, definitely. “But there was this one guy… Crazy motherfucker knew a girl he wanted to marry. At 21. Marry. How ridiculous is that?”

“Ridiculous. I can’t even find a woman I don’t want to strangle after hearing her babble for two hours.”

“Hey! Some of us know how to converse!”

“You’re not a woman, you don’t count,” Cody tells me, placing a hand on mine and attempting to rub in some sort of comfort. “No one interesting on your end? It must be hard for you, considering your ineptitude as a woman.”

It really is. I get bored of men faster than a sugar-hyped six-year-old in a university lecture hall, and it doesn’t help that I spend more time hanging with my guy friends than I do painting my nails. Finding someone that is both man enough to carry me home when I’ve pulled a muscle and keep my sexual attention past Tuesday is really fucking difficult. Although, Mike did do a bang up job of squashing that spider for me last week.

“Asshole.”

His eyes crinkle and he raises a glass. The pub has become a clinking whirl of pre-weekend celebrations and we’re no longer the only ones that are catching up at the top of our voices. People have started to crowd around the table behind Cody and it’s a shame, since I no longer have a clear view of any of the god-like examples I saw milling the pub before. I look around for the waiter; the jug’s empty and I wouldn’t mind a reason to bring him around again.

“What ever happened to that tall guy?” Cody asks, remarkably focused for someone who just helped me finish a jug.

“Which one?” I say, scanning the crowd for scruffy faces and broad shoulders; maybe he’s here.

“The one who took you out?”

Oh, Mike. His eyes do the cutest little scrunch when he laughs.

“Eh. I don’t know. I mean, he’s kind of funny. And he’s sort of interesting, I suppose.” And I guess I really like him. I swig the dregs of my beer and shrug. Like hell it‘s ever going to work out; I’ll probably be unable to let him hold my hand on the couch and he’ll likely find a petite blonde to bake him cookies. “But I don’t know if he’s anyone I want to see with clothes on.”

Snorting, Cody picks the jug up and waves it at the waiter from across the room, who nods and hurries towards the bar.

“You’re just afraid of commitment. You can‘t even say the word ‘boyfriend.’”

“No!” It‘s a problem. I’d rather be single than bend to any sort of restrictions, regardless of how much I might like the reason behind them. “You know I’m just fucking picky. Besides, variety is the spice of life. Why would I settle for one ride when I have so many different models to choose from?”

Cody laughs and I smile. This is exactly what guy friends are for – never mind boyfriends and cuddling. The waiter works his way through the crowd and, smiling, stops by to switch the empty jug for a gloriously full one. His smile doesn’t have a thing on Mike’s. Cody refills both of our glasses.

“Here’s to you,” he says, raising his beer to meet mine above our wooden table. “May you be awesome forever.”

I down glass. I can really only be awesome on my own.

Egyptian Royalty

2010-02-24T12:54:00.003-08:00

“Hey Lady! Yeah, where you from? England, Habibti? America?”

In a street the size of my apartment hallway, surrounded by tables of glass hookahs and plastic pyramids, I stand out.

“Lady, very beautiful, very beautiful! Come here, Habibti!”

A heavyset man sweating in the evening heat calls to me from his seat, gesturing at the door of the jewellery shop beside him, his legs tucked away from the tourists filing through the city bazaar. The next vendor jumps into the path my mother and I are exploring, getting close enough to put a hand on my back and for me to smell the day’s work on his skin. Not that the air doesn’t already reek of flavoured smoke and familiar men in close quarters.

“Look, Habibti, I have special price for you, you so beautiful. Where you from? I have special price, look.”

I smile appreciatively, but don’t stop to browse; neither Mom nor I have any need for highlighter yellow t-shirts. I am not the only white woman on vacation, nor am I the only one to warrant a Habibti, or “my darling”, as I wander with my mother, fingering the scarves and nosing the spices. But I am one of the few under fifty, and the only one to stand six feet tall; next to my five-foot-two-and-a-quarter, 51-year-old mother, I might as well be covered in gold.

Walking anywhere through sandy Cairo has earned me a slew of stares, calls and questions. After all, my stature means that I stand a head above most of the men in the Egyptian capital and that there is just that much more ankle to stare at under my long skirts. In the mosques, I’m given gowns for decency (though they hardly covered more than my own clothes did); in the streets, school girls come to touch my hair and tell me their names; in the restaurants, my mother is offered camels for my hand - and with her years of market bartering, she could easily make a fortune. More than a handful of strange locals pull me into embraces only to take out cell phones for pictures and gather around to discuss my dimples in bubbling Arabic as Mom watches, smiling slightly and bobbing her head to the local music. The Egyptian attention has made me into royalty.

Arm in arm with my mother, I pull her away from a tobacco shop and it’s greasy, bearded vendor and towards one of the silver-packed windows that line the alleyway. I direct her around a puddle caught in the bricks and we stop in front of a dusty ledge to check out the jewellery.

“Oh, that one looks nice, honey,” she says, patting my hand fondly and nodding at a simple, hoop necklace.

“Hey! Look at you, beautiful! Habibti, come here so I can see you.”

I tug on Mom’s arm again, towards the woven straw sacks a few stalls down and farther from the tobacco vendor. Between the layers of hanging linen and above the humid smoke, the smell of a hundred spices rise like a wall from the sacks. I pause just outside to let Mom don her reading glasses and examine the labels.

“Oh, wow, Habibti, wow. Come to talk to me, Habibti. Where you from?”

She is squinting at a bag of saffron; I ignore the tobacco vendor.

“Oh, the things I can do to your body, Habibti.”

Mom snaps.

“Excu-use me?” She turns face-to-sweaty-chest with the bearded man; glasses perched on her nose, saffron clenched in her fist. “Who do you think you are?” She put a finger up to his face and he sputters. “How dare you talk like that to my daughter?” Every word becomes slower, clearer; she perfected the art of the oral-lashing years ago. “How dare you be so rude? And in front of her mother.”

Staring at my little, bespectacled mother, he backs up. The other salesmen stop pressing in on us and Mom takes full advantage of her stage.

“How dare you say things like that. Did your own mother not raise you right? Who do you think you are?”

The tobacco vendor’s beard waggles and accented apologies begin to tumble out; he means no disrespect, his mother would never have raised him like that, he is very, very sorry. At this point, Mom decides she’s had enough, puts her arm back through mine, and marches towards the crowded exit of the bazaar.

“Wait, Madame, wait! I know people, I will get you good prices! Respect, Madame, respect!” He follows us past the silver stores, around circles of men sipping tea and puffing smoke rings, and under banners of pashmina scarves.

“Madame, please! I want to give you good price. Take my business card.”

Mom pauses, and he shoves an apologetic hand towards her, waving his little card in the air. I stand behind her, watching as he begs her wide-eyed to accept his small paper offering of penitence. She huffs - too good for anything less than gold - turning once again to walk out as I tail her, all eyes on my mother.

“I‘m sorry Madame! Have a good evening, Madame!”

I was really just a lady to the queen.

My Life Is Addicted

2010-02-01T23:08:00.002-08:00

A few weeks ago, I was supposed to read two chapters of a French book for class. Instead, I spent three and a half hours reading poorly spelt and grammatically incorrect short English stories online. No joke, man. I am about as focused as a six-year-old with pixie sticks when it comes to doing homework, especially if an internet connection happens to be around.

I’d pulled my book out of my bag and opened my laptop on the table, fully prepared to pretend to accomplish something this afternoon. I am so fucking pro at pretending. Within minutes, I’d checked all four emails (including the one I haven’t actually used since grade nine), updated my Facebook status twice (“is doing homework.” followed by “can’t wait for the bar this weekend!”), and caught up with my daily horoscope (it’s weird how right the stars are about my tight budget). Then, the worst thing that has ever happened to my academic career appeared on the screen.

What I had done, was stumble upon a four sentence story about a grandmother and a “that’s what she said” joke and giggled. That was it. I read, I laughed, I clicked, and I wasted the rest of my afternoon. What I had done, was discover an online archive called MyLifeIsAverage, where nothing is average and Harry Potter fans are heroes.

By the time I reached page 37, my roommate was reading over my shoulder and the tomato sauce was burning to the bottom of the pot on the stove. Jesus, I have never wanted to be average so bad. Who were these people that had been tackled by grown men in bunny suits, had cats with ninja powers, or actually saw police men buying doughnuts? How would I ever get to be that awesome – I mean – average? All along I’d been convinced that eating cereal for breakfast, calling your mom on the weekend and getting the median mark on the midterm were more or less considered average. But no, this site had brought together just the sort people who had gone ahead and changed the very definition.

A week went by, and it became tradition at home to read the funniest stories out loud to those unfortunate enough not to be logged into the website themselves. Not that I really needed to hear it, of course, as I had gotten to the point of reading the latest submissions on an hourly basis. Twilight-dissing teachers made me smile, Banana-decked teens got me roaring, and online proposals had me cheering. I shit you not, I was addicted.

I was home, sick, from class one day when I realized that I had gone on yet another 4 hour binge on the site. I’d even gone back to the first of the 2000 pages, and was reading through the very old and very average, original submissions. Good god, I was no longer living my own life, but full out dependant on those of others; I had no magical cats, no prankster teenaged neighbours, and no boyfriend that I would ever want to propose to me with a pokeball. I called it quits, over saturated, and decided I would no longer count on my profs to credit me for the artistic merits of my doodles. I gave up waiting to be average and decided to be normal again.

Today, two weeks later, I was taking the bus home when I saw a man full-out sprinting with a massive, euro-trip style backpack. Brushing his teeth. And I smiled; finally, MLIA.

Silly Woman

2010-01-15T16:49:00.004-08:00

The other day I was munching on my lunch and flipping through the Martlet when I came across a read so compelling, I nearly walked into a truck, two people, and summarily ended up falling into a pond (I’d say puddle, but no one calls something two feet deep a puddle). I am, of course, referring to “La femme de la revolution.”

Upon reading that women aught to “rise up against oppression, reject society’s definition of beauty and revolutionize how we view ourselves,” I snorted. Then, I made it to the line in which I’m told females need “to stop being objectified, sexualized and judged” and I gagged a little. By the time I reached the part where I’m told that I “must drastically alter the misconception that females are subordinate and powerless” and that I, in fact, “hold all the power to define [my] fate” I could taste the banana bile. At this point, I was so absorbed by the informative properties of the article that I had completely forgotten that my feet were still swimming.

I don’t know who the author is, but Jesus, does she ever have her cotton panties in a bunch. Though I must commend her thorough research (who knew that Ariel Levy believes women have become “chauvinistic pigs?”) and ability to avoid broad, sweeping generalizations, I simply can’t imagine why on earth someone would go through the trouble of dating themselves by comparing Playboy to genital mutilation. After all, I came into the article believing I was about to learn to which point “female dignity, pride and respect” is vanishing, but ended it with a vague feeling that I had just completed last centuries Intro to Women’s Studies.

Although I wouldn’t dare suggest that perhaps the author aught to untangle her panties, I do wonder what exactly she suggest I do. Should I begin ignoring the critique my “chauvinistic” female professors have for my work? (Though I’m not sure I’ve got the balls, ironically.) In the name of condemning “unrealistic societal ideals,” should I stop applying makeup post kickboxing class and throw out my revealing dresses? My high heels? What about my bras? Society has been pretty hard on chicks that don’t wear them lately. Hell, maybe I aught to give up showering completely. I’m fit enough, why should I listen to the rest of what society has to say?

Though I do appreciate the nod made to women in positions of power (think Hillary Clinton and Michaëlle Jean), I fail to see why other women should not wear fitting dresses or dance naked. I myself have been known to wear my rugby spandex underneath short skirts while going shot for shot with my guy friends and scream at spiders I find lifting couches. I have to wonder if the feminists of the last century meant not to create a society in which men can become strippers or women can vie for presidency, but rather to establish one in which my fellow females are required to forgo feeling “womanly” and men must ignore the assets we were born with.

In retrospect, I applaud the Martlet for continuing to publish such exquisitely informative articles. The past couple of years have really shown me just what types of individual expression and freedoms my fore“mothers” fought for in the ‘60s and ‘70s. It’s liberating to know that I can count on the women of UVic to be just as outraged as I am upon being checked out. How dare men appreciate my fashion sense or styled hair?

Stations

2010-01-04T13:37:00.003-08:00

Arrivals

Two visible clocks? Check. Grease stained, gum smeared cement floors? Check. Well used vending machine? Check. And – oh, look! – the couple making out. They’re my favourite part. Awkward, I know, but watching kids lock braces somehow beats staring at train station floors for three hours. After all, I’d already named every trampled, grey piece of gum I’d seen and pushed a mountain range of cigarette butts together with my feet (being sure to avoid Lucy, Rex, Godzilla and friends); there was nothing more novel to find here than at any other station.

I was mid-adventure and ready to move on. I’d been waiting on my connection from Berlin’s Hauptbahnhof to my grandmother in Prague since noon and the end of platform 12 had not gotten any more exciting as the sun had come down. I expected the long wait but, this being the sixth time in two weeks that I’d had to sprawl over my luggage for a seat, I’d gotten somewhat bored of naming gum and memorizing train schedules. Though, on the bright side, this station’s schedules were yellow and blue, just like the ones in Switzerland.

**************

I was fifteen when I first remember experiencing a real train station; not the day to day, inner-city, light-rail transit BS I’d grown up with, but one that connected not only cities, but entire countries. My new host mother and I were lugging everything I owned and a pair of skis through the tunnels beneath Zurich airport, dodging people until we found our platform. I hadn’t thought that the first thing I’d be doing off the plane was finding my way to a train, nor had I ever imagined a train station could be so… station like. Ducking our way through crowds determined to get somewhere, all I managed were glances from the back of my host mother’s head to the rows of business yellow schedules and billboards along the halls. The platforms were endless, everything was Swiss standard clean, and I had a million questions to ask the woman I hardly knew in front of me. What on earth was a “Gleis?” Wasn’t I here to learn French? How long was the train ride? Where were we going to be living? Like hell I could have even asked; instead, I swung my 45 pound suitcase into the carriage after her and informed her that, “Le train, c’est grand.”

**************

Stepping off the train and into the dry, orange heat of Barcelona’s Estación de Tren years later, I walked into my next adventure. Here, I was alone and eager to test the limits of my Spanish vocabulary. Voices echoed from floor to three story ceiling, chattering at me in bits and pieces as I made my way down the long platform, clutching my purse to my chest and staring at the dark women around me. God, I hoped I was well enough dressed. Jesus, what if the job was a scam and that 6 hour train ride a waste? Not like wasting any more time to panic in front of a cracked girls’ room mirror would do me any good at this point, anyway. I paused in the main hall to reorganize my bags, took a deep breath, and continued through the evening crowds, past a graffitied vending machine, until I found the Salido and street beyond.

Connections

One of the first times I ever got right hammered, I ended my glorious evening hugging the rim of a public toilet as a friend shoved french-fries down my throat. We were killing another Friday night and all thirteen of us had congregated to hang out in the middle of the local train station, sitting on the wooden benches in front of the McDonald’s and doing what teenaged exchange students do best. We were spilling cheap vodka by 9 and drunk by 9:30. Our group got rambunctious, throwing made-up French and bad grammar at each other until we echoed between the tire-sized clock and the arrivals board at the end of the fluorescent hall. This being Switzerland though, nobody said a damned thing until I ran to the garbage can, sticking my head sideways through the open slots, and tried to vomit inside unsuccessfully.

**************

I’d been fanning myself with a folded piece of my itinerary for the last twenty minutes, staring out the window to watch an older madame leaning on the sandy brick ledge and dragging at her smoke. Why had they even bothered with the “No Smoking” sign? By the time I got off the train, not a single one of the dozen smoking passengers prowling the platform could care less about the palm-sized sign, nor the announcement reminding them that smoking in train stations was no longer legal in France. I had abandoned my bags on the train and, wiping at the sweat sitting beneath my hairline, decided to abandon the heat too. Glass doors parted as I entered the air conditioned building, revealing a giant board of arrivals and departures with more empty slots than there were platforms outside. Apparently there had been an “accident of persons” ahead of us that needed to be scraped off the tracks and we all would be waiting for hours thanks to the inconsiderate asshole. I had people to meet and places to discover – just not very quickly. So I wandered into the dusty streets of town but, seeing nothing save a few sandy, crooked buildings and a bank machine, I went back to my platform. Leaning into a corner shaded from the midday sun, I lit a smoke to kill time.

**************

We were supposed to be traveling from the pyramids in Cairo to the temples in Luxor and the train was late. The air smelled like garbage. The people were too pushy. And what did he mean there were no bathrooms? I had come with a tour group and was doing everything I could to make it look as though I hadn’t. I had dragged my bags across the stained floors to the far wall of the crowded platform and sat on top of them, arranging my purse underneath me and my sweater across every open piece of skin I had to avoid foreign scrutiny. Even from here, my shorts-clad group was just as conspicuous against the robes and full suits of the local Muslims as a herd of cattle in a grocery store. I sighed, leaning back against the cement to watch the group buddy up with our tour guide. It was the only way I was going to see Egypt, so be damned if I had to be seen in public places moo-ing sweetly at whatever was put in front of me. I just hoped that no one would start vocally craving McDonald’s in the middle of the local station crowd before we managed to get onto the train and out of sight. I glanced at my watch again and turned to the nearest billboard, decidedly examining Arabic advertising.

Departures

She wasn’t quite sure I would make the train on time; even once we were there thirty five minutes early, coffee in hand, and seated on the very platform I was to depart from. There were maybe two other people, a Czech guard and an accepted silence hanging on the open-air cement. Save, of course, my grandmother’s hopes that I work hard in school, wishes that my brothers and parents were doing well, and occasional speculations as to whether the train was even coming that morning. Though that was quickly answered as a shaking carriage pulled up in front of the wooden bench my grandma and I had gotten comfortable on. We’d been up late last night, drinking that last bottle of wine and wondering where we might like to go next, if either of us made it there. Her soft arm in mine, I walked her to my door and once she’d confirmed my cabin with the guard and watched me put away my luggage, I stepped down from the carriage to say goodbye to her and Prague for what I hoped would not be the last time. Cheeks red with her lipstick, I left to sit at the next window from the door, and waved until I couldn’t see her standing on the concrete ledge anymore.

**************

He tottered towards us down the platform, hollering back to his friends before stopping to lean on the bright red vending machine beside us and ask us where we were from. A bottle popped out of his bag, open and far from full. I looked him over and raised an eyebrow; he was way too fucking scrawny to be able to drink that much. He had appeared just as me and my girlfriends were getting off the train, on our way to raise hell and lower expectations, and admitted he’d overheard our English on the train in to town. Then I told him I was Canadian and he got excited, smashing a hand against the plastic window of the machine with a “noo way.” He was too and he was determined to show a fellow countryman a good time, so we exchanged numbers in the glowing, late night lights of the station hall before heading our separate ways.

He stayed with his family in Switzerland after I went back to mine; graduating high school, working his way through law school, and perfecting the art of lighting a joint with a full glass in hand. A few scattered reunions later, we stood lounging against the grey railings of a different station, my bags between us, as we worked out just where and when we would meet next. It would have to be somewhere, sometime, for some sort of awesome adventure; who gave a shit about the specifics. The train rolled in, cutting us off from a billboard of Venice we’d just been contemplating, and he heaved my bags to me once I’d gotten inside. Dangling out of the train door into the morning air, I gave him a peck as he stood in front of a blue and yellow schedule to thank him for his hospitality, only to be yelled at.

“No, no! We’ve got to do this properly!” he said, kissing my right, left, and then right cheek again before jumping back onto the smudged concrete. I stood with my face pressed between blurred handprints as the train pulled out and mouthed another à bientôt !

Hunting Lost Causes

2009-11-19T23:10:00.003-08:00

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. I’m on my hands and knees, throwing dirty jeans and grey socks over my back, stopping only to paw at every sweater pocket I come across. Goddamn son of a bitch. I sit back on my heels, sigh and smack my thighs; it’s a lost cause and I know it. What is this, number fucking thirteen? This one cost me a fortune too; camera, mp3s and flat as a credit card. The first one, at least, had been just black and white.

****

We were on a mission and as wild as supervised, suburban fourteen-year-olds could want to be. No sprints, no push ups, no defensive drills; just dead balloons, yellow sunglasses and four and a half oranges. There I was, scavenging with the basketball girls, and my mom had let me borrow her cell phone. Jesus, was I ever freakin’ cool. I called the dollar store, touched base with the other girls and wouldn’t let the phone out of my hand. Coach wanted to find out where the rest of the team was? I was on it. We needed a twist tie? I’d call dad! I was in the zone and ready for anything.

Suddenly, a need to make dinner plans arose and my hand shot into my pocket, already imagining the smooth flick with which I would open my cellular device and the resulting marvel of my team mates. My hand hit cloth, and I panicked, scrambling to grasp at both empty pockets three or four times before I even got that the phone wasn’t there. Nor was it on the seat, on the floor, or in the snow bank under the back tire. Oh God. That piece of luxury had been entrusted to me by my very own mother and it was gone. I was going to be in a whole lot of shit.

I still remember the lecture I got once I dragged my feet through the front door, up one side and down the other, until my “lack of responsibility” sunk into my “thick skull.” She then shoved me into the car to take me wading through ankle-high snow at each one of the seventeen different locations me and my team mates had gone scavenging. It wasn’t anywhere to be found, of course, and I spent the next two weeks staring at the ceiling in my room, knowing I would never lose a phone again.

****

I get back to my feet and shuffle towards the bedroom door, kicking at my backpack one last time in a vain hope to see the little black thing come tumbling out of its pouches. Fuuuck; nothing. I’ve done this so many times now that I know the drill by heart. I lean into the hallway and ask loudly to borrow a phone from someone; I’ve got to make sure the local shop has my model – their cheapest – in stock so I can pick it up ASAP. Once I get it, I’ll call Mom and tell her I’ve been busy for the last couple of days.

Research

2009-11-19T22:46:00.000-08:00

“Umm… What is a drinking game. Jeez, that’s a hard question. It’s where you play a game and, say, if you get something wrong you have to drink. And it’s kind of a social thing where everyone gets together and it makes it more interesting, I guess.”

“I probably have a lot more funny things to say when I’ve been drinking, ’cause now I’m sober.”

“A way to pass time while – well, it’s like a catalyst, enhancing the speed at which you consume liquids in good company.”

“They’re a lot of fun if people are not used to each other or it seems a little awkward. It’s something else to focus on, as opposed to staring awkwardly, sitting in a circle, slowly sipping on your drink.”

“Awkward situations: that’s the best time to drink. You walk in, you don’t know anyone, so you start one and suddenly you make friends. Woo!”

“I hate people. Which is why I dislike drinking games; I don’t like team things, group things. But I guess every once in a while if I’m with a group of people and I like them ... but I think they mostly happen ’cause you’re with people you don’t know and you don’t really want to talk to them, but you want to get drunk with them and then people get drunk and are like ‘you’re my best friend, this is awesome.’”

“Drinking and fun go hand in hand.”

“It’s also like stepping it up a notch. Like when we did [Egg]Nog-Pong; it wasn’t necessary but you know it was awesome.”

“Oh I really like Waterfall. Sociables. It’s got a load of different names, I think it’s pretty well known ’cause you get to watch other people do stupid shit. You have a bunch of different rules and you can be totally strategic. Like ‘Whenever Roxanne takes a drink, Abbey takes two!’ and shit.”

“You learn a lot; mostly super-weird secrets about people. Like, it only gets fun when you start asking awkward questions.”

“I like Three Man, ’cause it’s simple. Nobody has to pretend they’re mooses or anything, like Sociables. I don’t know why: ‘Do an accent, ladies drink or guys drink!’ I just don’t really like them in general, but if they’re simple I don’t have to do anything stupid.”

“How much do you love Flip Cup? And Beer Pong! I like the team thing. Those things are extra fun.”

“’Cause you get to do something physical. It’s like ping pong, and ping pong is played officially, in the Olympics. So, really, it’s like I’m drinking beer for the Olympics.”

“What else would I do, sit outside and have a smoke by myself? …I guess so. Well why don’t we play monopoly and I’ll just drink and we can call it a drinking game. I think every game is meant to be drunk with; everybody gets their competitive side out and then we find out who the competitive asshole is.”

“I play ‘cause I don’t like the taste of alcohol.”

“I think a lot of them are hype things. Apparently a lot of people play them ’cause it’s like ‘yah! Let’s drink, let’s do something stupid, let’s go out and drink!’ You wouldn’t necessarily if you’re with a couple of friends with a glass of wine. But I think it’s a hype thing mostly.”

“There’s a lot more peer pressure, so you get a lot more drunk.”

“By the time you get to the end of the game, you’re pretty messed. They usually end in somebody being ill or something like that. Then usually it’s like well “my friend” did this but, you know.”

“One time, my friend got naked and pole danced for us.”

“I’ll never do that ever again.”

“They’re not for kids or injured people. Ridiculously messed up? Once, this buddy face planted while trying to do the worm. He laid there on his face, moaning.”

“It’s fun, but it’s probably not very appropriate.”

“No, dude, definitely no. I’ve seen way too many games gone bad. Shit always hits the fan, things go down, people start crying. Do I not condone it? … I like seeing people cry.”

“I don’t see why they’re bad, it’s a social thing. It’s also sexual.”

“I never really liked it ’cause, ah… it was all about getting drunk, but I guess that’s the point, so I don’t really know what to say. I’m just a cynical bitch. I can admit that.”

“…yeah I like drinking games. It’s big, it’s universal – ’cept for people who don’t drink.”

“Well, exactly.”

Little Details

2009-10-26T15:07:00.004-07:00

“I think it looks like a penis.”

“Really? I was thinking rocket ship.”

“No, definitely penis.”

Thirteen minutes of staring at the thing, and this was all we had managed to conclude. Not why it was there, what purpose it might serve, or who the hell had erected it. I took a sip of my coffee, handed it off to the roommate I’d dragged out for research purposes and straddled the cement construction.

“How ‘bout now?” I said, reaching over the top to get fingers under the edges of its cap. “Think I could ride it to the moon?”

“Your kind of ‘ride to the moon’?” she asked, swirling my coffee and smirking. “Definitely wouldn’t be the rocket ship.”

It had taken two and a half years for me to stop and examine the greyish lump I’d passed on my way to and from class – alright, fine, it’s hard for a gutter-brained girl not to notice a vaguely phallic statue side-lining her daily bike route, but this was the first time I’d gone out of my way to look.

“Man, I didn’t even know this thing was here,” she said, handing the coffee back as I slipped off of what could have been a wing or ball – depending – and took a step onto the patch of dust around it. We were smack-dab in the middle of campus, buildings in four directions and five steps from a coffee shop, examining a three-foot-high, concrete block. No wonder it got about as much attention as the gumball under the fridge.

We split up the structure; she looking for plaques on the flat, triangular outcrops, me kicking at the dust around the base, knocking over a metal box that revealed nothing but a ground tap. So I tried another method of inspection, leaned in – nose to the cement – and took a whiff.

“Maybe it’s a fire-hydrant. Like, for dogs or first-years.”

“What kind of fire-hydrant has wings?”

“Naw, you’re right,” I said, clambering back on top of the statue, thinking maybe I’d find an answer from atop the cap. From my square-foot perch I instead discovered that not only did it still look like a penis from above, but affirmed that it was about as useful as a seven-year-old’s Saturday afternoon Lego tower. The sloped cement pieces jutting out from each side could not possibly be sat on, be stepped on, hold coffee mugs or grow flowers. Not that the surface which I was standing on was good for much else, either.

I finished the dregs of my cold coffee and turned to further examine the surroundings of the cement lump. It was thrusting out from a tiny dirt patch set between a paved square and a field, home to two sixty-foot totem poles, complete with plaques and recognition.

“You know, it’s gotta be a penis. Like, a faculty joke.”

“So you’re, uh, coming to a conclusion, eh?”

“Ha-ha; funny joke,” I said, chucking my empty coffee mug at her. “But seriously, dude. What the fucking else would it be?”

I tried to ask a few questions later, maybe get a few answers, but nobody knew what I was even talking about. I campaigned the square around the statue, interrogating bewildered students – most of whom could hardly find it when I pointed to it with my notebook – and a few of the nearby coffee-shop staff.

“Oh, that grey-thingy? Yeah, that’s been there for a while, I guess,” offered one such employee, holding a stack of coffee filters. “So d’you want the African or Light Roast?”

I ended up camped out on top of the thing, waiting for a member of the grounds crew to come by and eating rice crackers until I saw one raking leaves between the totem poles. I ran up to him, introducing myself with cheese dust fingers, and asked him if he could tell me what exactly the statue was.

“I’m not actually sure,” he said slowly. “Why don’t you check the library?”

But even the librarians failed me. Cocking eyebrows and pointing me in the direction of university databases, not one of them knew about the little structure on the other side of the grounds. I found not a picture, article nor a mention of a small, concrete rocket ship anywhere on campus.

“It’s a bit too odd-shaped for a penis, anyways,” my roommate said, tilting her head to the side and eyeing the concrete chunk I was still on top of. “There is way too much ball for that length. Completely disproportionate.”

Spoken Sex

2009-10-11T18:21:00.003-07:00

Earlier that evening I’d thought that straddling him would somehow quash his desire to speak with me in broken Spanish. But no, the fact that his English was better and my German outweighed both made no difference to him; by the time we got to my apartment he’d convinced himself that the best method of communication would be the language he was worst at. So he continued by yelling “si, guapa, si!” thinking that I’d either be unable to hear his thick accent or that I’d admire his drunken efforts to practice Spanish with an English speaker.

I let him get away with a couple kisses the next time I ran into him, but spent the better part of the evening introducing him as my perrito tonto (or stupid puppy) while he grinned and nodded, proving my point. I hadn’t even thought about his intellect or linguistic skills the first time around. He could have spoken Mandarin for all it mattered, and I still would have taken the idiot home. There had been something about the way he’d swaggered, the way he’d grabbed my waist that had me wanting to humour his Spanish all night long – at least, until I got bored of it. It’s not like it made a difference what language he had chosen to digress my love of mushrooms in, anyway.

Having spent most of my adult life hitting on English speakers, I never fully realized just how easy it is to get the message across; though, it’s not like a “come-hither” look can really get lost in translation. One evening I didn’t even speak to the guy until we’d stepped outside together after more than a few sideways glances and an over-the-crowd cheers.
“You don’t speak English. Español? Aucun français? Aber Deutsch?” Ja doch, but he knew just enough to get me bee-lining it past the last couple bars in the opposite direction.

A Moroccan boxer eventually talked me home, making me dry off after a shower before he threw me into bed and checking Africa off my To-Do list of continents. A couple weeks later, while I lay on his covers, drunk and pointing out that my Spanish was probably better than his, he grinned and told me he didn’t speak any anyways. Then, of course, he proceeded to admit that his favourite part of sleeping with me was the way I’d mumble in English, imitating what I presume was supposed to be my very own “Oh God.” And there I was thinking it was my dashing good looks that had gotten me laid.

I could have been saying “green country cheese!” for all it mattered; I was female, naked and lying in his bed. Not that sex was ever a conversation-based past-time anyhow; why should I care if I can’t discuss the possibility of the ice caps melting while humping in the back seat of a car? After all, it’s almost sexier when the only thing you understand is what you’re both after.

Ten Reasons to Date a Writer

2009-09-26T16:59:00.002-07:00

Because this has been done for every sport known to man and I have a serious case of writer's block.

1. We’re always looking for ways to make things more interesting.
2. We can spend weeks figuring out the best way to get things started.
3. We know how to evoke a response.
4. We devote hours to working on just one piece.
5. Once we’re focused we won’t let something drop.
6. We always end things with a bang.
7. We will keep reworking things until we get them just right.
8. We always go at something from all angles.
9. We’re not afraid to try something new for a better reaction.
10. We’re not afraid to shock and appal

Pointless Ideas

2009-09-26T16:48:00.001-07:00

I’m not sure exactly when, but at some point this spring I got the idea to write about packing. Yes, packing. In retrospect, that’s the most boring fucking thing I could have ever possibly conspired to put on paper. It might even be worse than the “piece” I wrote for a journalism class on the dangers of bunnies; that, at least, was mildly entertaining bullshit. Fortunately for you though, once I got around to writing it I realized a story about packing would likely rank last on my personal list of must-reads and that I would be embarrassing myself were I to actually post anything of the sort. It was also around then that I started to seriously question why anyone reads anything on this damnable “blog.” (Or why I even have one. Ew.)

Obviously, any sort of writer who doesn’t have his or her head shoved so far up their ass they can see their tonsils has to wonder what it is about their stories and their word choice that makes for good reading. It’s the sort of doubt that I can never really shake and tends to come out in full force whenever someone tells me they’ve read something I write. Did they like it? Did they look like smirking idiots at the café? Did they really, honestly, truthfully think my couple hundred words were something worth reading? Especially considering my propensity to write vague, rambling stories about my childhood love for Barbies; why for the love of God would someone waste ten minutes of their day reading that?

In all honesty I’m quite in love with the process of writing in itself. I love setting myself down with my laptop, I love trying to pull together a logical story and I absolutely adore playing with words to spell out exactly what I want to say. What escapes me, however, is what it is about the final product that gets people reading. On days when I’m desperately trying to avoid chores or homework, I get to looking through my notebook and rereading old, half-assed stories and I have to wonder how far up my ass those ideas came from. After all, I don’t see why anyone cares about what goes through my head when I lose a notebook or why I read Cosmo; I sure as fuck wouldn’t (if it weren’t my own).

The worst part, I think, about spending so much of my spare time rambling is that I’m actually trying to make a career out of it. Not only am I expecting people to take time out of their day for my stories, but I expect someone to pay me for it. Yeah fucking right. Who’s about to hand me money for opinions as irrelevant as the snail squashed to my front step? Sure, I get the cursory “I loved what you wrote, T!” from the people I manage to bully, staring them down while they look over a newspaper page I’ve handed them, but it’s impossible to be completely fearless when my future depends entirely upon luck and talent. After all, when was the last time you saw a recruitment agency looking specifically for a sarcastic, highly impatient and egotistical young writer lacking any sort of legitimate experience or professional recognition?

Sometimes, I wish I could just give my notebook away; let someone else run with my many, many, pointless ideas only to post them on the internet. I’ve thought about it. It’s not like I have anything pertinent to say, in any case – unless you define my personal vanity as pertinent. But then, I’d be giving the opportunity to question the very point of spending hours in pubs and hundreds on beer just to yadder on to no one in particular to some other, self obsessed writing student who’s post them on the internet. And I just couldn’t let that happen; not when I have a story-sphere to maintain.

Examining Online Literary Absences

2009-09-23T23:53:00.002-07:00

Subject: Tanysia
Occupation: “Student” a.k.a. non-existant
Height: 179 cm
Weight: Female

19:09 – Subject enters seating area, carrying laptop by top of screen. Chooses deteriorated couch and places laptop on lap.
19:10 – Subject moves laptop to couch and leaves to kitchen area. Email visible on screen.
19:13 – Subject returns with assorted rice crackers and tomatoes. Replaces laptop on lap.
19:21 – Subject finishes rice crackers, removes laptop and returns to kitchen with dish. Blank text document visible on screen.
19: 23 – Subject returns with glass red wine. Replaces laptop on lap and begins typing. Subject pauses, stares out front window, takes a sip and continues typing; this time slower. This continues for 37 minutes.
20:00 – Subject’s glass is now empty. Subject places laptop on coffee table in center of seating area and leaves to kitchen area. 8 lines are visible on screen.
20:06 – Subject returns to laptop with glass in hand. Bends over to tap keyboard before leaving to stand next to front window. “Facebook” is visible on screen.
20:22 – Subject has now spent 16 minutes staring out window and glass is now empty. Subject leaves to kitchen area and returns with opened bottle of red wine. Fills glass, sits and replaces laptop on lap.
20:25 – Subject reads page aloud several times.
20:26 – Subject deletes several lines of text.
20:34 – Subject has now been staring at screen for 8 minutes and glass is now empty. Refills glass.
20:36 – Subject removes laptop to coffee table and leaves to kitchen area. Media player is now visible on screen.
20:39 – Subject returns with ham slices and lies on same couch. Program is now playing.
22:56 – Subject officially* concludes no more work will be done.

*Note: “officially” refers to the subject’s own verbal confirmation of the obvious.

Cleaning Tips for New Roomates

2009-07-14T05:38:00.004-07:00

- it is possible to keep everyone from knowing your on the rag if you actually wipe the blood off the toilet seats

-you can avoid weeks of disgust by simply mopping the dog piss off the floor

-the fantastic colour of the marble floor really comes out if you ash cigarettes and joints not around the tray, but in it.

-if a rough schedule for taking out the garbage is hard to hammer out with the roommates, an excellent timing indicator is the rotting juice that eventually forms around the bottom of the garbage bag

-a good way to show your appreciation for a job well done is to avoid walking over a freshly mopped floor in sand caked shoes

-carrying that bucket of your overcooked, three week leftovers all the way to the door does not actually mean that it’s been taken care of

- while the effort to cook and actually make use of our minimal kitchen is appreciated, it would be better were you to actually eat what was cooked, as opposed to letting in biodegrade in a pot for a week

- you’ll feel much better the morning after if you actually empty the garbage bin you used to throw up in

- sweeping every four or five days is not actually considered “excessive” in most households.

Babi

2009-06-09T11:46:00.000-07:00

“I probably shouldn’t say this to you,” my Czech grandmother tells me in the middle of Prague as we walk through a very busy park, “but I don’t like Czech people. They’re not very… intelligent.” She then goes on to explain, in the true style of a woman both in love with historical details and now slightly senile, how the invasions of the communists and the establishment of the Czech Republic as a worker state ran anyone with any degree of intellect out of the country. And it is exactly for that reason that she likes living in the middle of the old quarter with all the tourists. “At least they’re not Czech.”

This, of course, might be shocking coming from any other 82-year-old, chocolate-toting grandmother, but from my Babi? Never. Not after having received calls from her telling me that having many “friends” as opposed to “one friend” – by which she means boyfriends – is much better at my age (after all, I need to be “free”) and that stupid people are boring. Not when she tells me she would have gone to university earlier but was too proud to spend a year pulling potatoes as the communists dictated, or that she thinks lip rings would get in the way of kissing properly. Not when, at breakfast, she asks me how many bottles of wine we’ll need for the day.

Visiting with my Babi has always been a treat; especially as I got older. The more I grew into myself the clearer it became that my parents would never need a Maury Show DNA test and I was quite obviously my grandma’s own. We’ve always been the “soft science” outcasts of the family – discussing sociology, language, and wine– and neither of us seem to be capable of functioning on our own. During an evening out, one of my cousins told me that he and his parents often had to put my Babi directly into a cab otherwise she would neither leave nor find her way home. Ironically, that same evening I somehow made my way to her apartment only to find myself incapable of actually fitting the key in her door. The next morning, between a couple of Advil, a litre of water and after having declined the offer for more wine, Babi told me that it must have been very difficult to know which key was which at 4.30 in the morning; naturally, it had nothing to do with my blood alcohol percentage.

Living through the Russian occupation, Babi was never permitted to leave the country, let alone travel. My grandfather – an international marketer of communist goods – spent years bringing trinkets home from around the globe until the two of them made a break for Switzerland and travelling liberty. Since then, I doubt there’s a cruise ship they haven’t boarded, a flight they haven’t taken, or a restaurant yet to serve my Babi wine. When I was ten my grandfather passed away, leaving his poor wife to open her own cans, fry her own eggs, and call her own taxis. Since, with an empty house and places to see, none of the family could tell you exactly where at any given moment my Babi can be found – maybe Turkey, France perhaps, or the middle of the Mediterranean – or whether she’ll have time to talk were you to call.

The night before leaving her hundred-year old apartment, we finished one last bottle of wine and plotted our next rendezvous. Maybe La Palma, Paris, or somewhere in Melanesia. We’d have to find the perfect halfway point; somewhere with good restaurants and centuries of history where we can spend the day meandering from cafe to cafe and all night exchanging stories. Only next time, I’ll bring the wine.

Travelling Tips

2009-06-03T04:58:00.004-07:00

Departure: Row 24 Seat D – Even though the people crawling outside look cold, it is pertinent to refrain yourself from suggesting that the flight attendant let them in and to remember that not everyone is taking the same sort of trip you are.

Stop 1: Calgary – Once the ugly lights come on, the loud banging noises you hear are no longer music and it is no longer an appropriate time to dance on the speakers.

Stop 2: Mississauga – Agreeing to see your 60 year-old aunt’s new dance moves means that you will actually be subjected to impromptu dance lessons and to reassurances that you’re a “natural” even if you’ve already stepped on her feet twice and only ever get the first step of the Cha-Cha right.

Stop 3: Amsterdam – Spending most of the day smoking up to recover from a hangover is in no way advantageous when a tour bus full of Slavs thinks it would be funny to take impromptu pictures with you at the ferry docks.

Stop 4: Prague – Spending $30 on beer is equivalent to paying to wander the streets alone and lost at about 4.30 in the morning on the way home from the pub two doors down. And then having to call your grandma to let you in when you realize you’re not physically capable of fitting a key in the lock.

Stop 5: Vienna – Being able to say “I can speak [language]” does not actually mean you will understand a word of it when someone questions you, gives you directions or asks how you’re doing in four different ones within ten minutes.

Stop 6: Neuchâtel – Fireman carrying the biggest guy you can find around the club does not, contrary popular belief, completely eliminate your chances of getting laid.

Stop 7: Lausanne – Teenaged exchange students still find incredibly creative ways to drink themselves into a stupor, and even more creative ways to stash it.

Stop 8: Montpellier – People inconsiderate enough to commit suicide on train tracks cause not only massive complications for railway customer service representatives, but massive – occasionally overnight – delays for anyone traveling those tracks.

Polish Nutrition

2009-06-03T04:28:00.001-07:00

“Here, what would you like?” I say, brandishing a can of tuna and some crackers in a friend’s face as he sat patiently waving away my advances. “Popcorn. D’you want popcorn? I might have some. You sure you’re not hungry?” I continue pulling things out of my fridge and cupboards until he agrees to have some of my left over lasagne and I sit across from him, sipping on chocolate milk and completely self satisfied.

Visits with my mother’s (and polish) side of the family has always meant meeting relatives I never knew existed, struggling through conversations in broken English, cheek pinches, ass pats and being fed more than I could possibly have needed as a girl of any age. Wandering in and out of the kitchen, my Babcia would tsk at how “skinny” I was and my aunts were consistently disappointed when I declined a fourth helping of dinner. After all, I was their unfortunate guest and there to be fed, watered and pinched.

As I got older, though, it became clearer that it was not only some odd poor-country impulse but something that simply made them happy. I tried for years to turn down the generous, albeit constant offers for food or drink and my polish family were not only disappointed, but ridiculously persistent. At the very least I would need to eat some fruit and have a drink. It took a couple of years before I learned that I would have to pass from household to household tactfully eating only a small bowl of my Babcia’s homemade chicken soup so that I could manage to eat one of the sandwiches my aunt had made and later the cakes presented to me by a great aunt twice removed, each one of them carefully watching and beaming as I forced my way through the ninth meal of the day.

One family-filled month I spent a morning watching my grandmother butter half a loaf for breakfast and pondering how to subtly get rid of the pierogies she would feed me an hour later, directly before an aunt came to pick me up for lunch. My aunt in turn could not figure out why I didn’t finish the pot of rice that she had made alongside my tray of vegetable chicken only to ask “How about dessert, Nishy?” squeezing my face with her hands. Later that evening I would be treated to a reunion barbeque and half a bottle of Zubrowka vodka - to be chased with homemade cherry liqueur, of course. Despite being raised Canadian and lacking what I would see as an old country need to feed, my mother herself will sit me down the instant I get home from a flight, place a beer in front of me and then point inside her fridge asking what, exactly, I might like to eat. At least being Polish generally means I get a few beers or Vodka shots with my indigestion.

I believe my own symptoms surfaced around the time I was graduating high school and started taking on the sole responsibility of entertaining my friends. Before, I would have already microwaved myself a pizza pocket only asking “Oh, you want some too?” once I’d seen my friend eying my plate at the table. But gradually I got into the habit of sitting them down, grabbing them a glass and then running through the list of what was available in the cupboards. Having drinks at my house soon meant that everyone would be standing around the kitchen island while I chopped cheese and salami, occasionally interrupting the flow of conversation to squeal and run to the cupboards when I remembered the crackers.

On my way from the beach one day, leading a troop of drunk guys home for dinner before the bar and in the right frame of mind for some deep self contemplation, it hit me. “I’m fucking polish!” (while smacking my roommate for proper emphasis.) There I was, marching my friends to my kitchen so that I could dice carrots, boil pasta and watch to ensure that every one of them was properly fed and nurtured before a big night on the town. I was the very product of my genetics and bloody well incapable of denying it.

Some weeks later, sitting on a plane after a couple of days spent with my Babcia and doubting I could ever eat again, I found myself wondering if the guy beside me might like a few of the chips I had with me. He did, of course, look kind of undernourished.

Embellishing Barbie

2009-04-23T11:51:00.003-07:00

When I was still young enough to appreciate the unquestionable coolness of a pink leopard print skirt and green high heels, I had a collection of Barbies more developed than that of my current liquor cabinet. It was one of those things that I would silently gloat over whenever school was out and my friends came over to play, snatching the prettiest doll and setting the scene before my friend would even have a chance to browse through the drawerfull. After all, they were my barbies and it was my house.

It was persistently the storyline, though, that was my favourite part. My Barbie, always exotically named and naturally fashionable, would be an actress on an outdoor set who went sky diving off mile high trees in her free time, she would attend her sister as she gave birth to a dead man’s son while trying to cure her friend’s fatal disease, or become enslaved on a distant planet by a treacherous king prone to fits of madness. And, of course, she would end up falling madly in love with a handsome, one armed ken-doll named Brett.

As I got older, my stories evolved from the dramas of your average fairy tale and became the stage to a burgeoning curiosity of the world outside my pink and yellow house. And, really, I blame Brett. By the time I was eleven, I don’t think I could make my way through a play date without somehow working in a nude scene – not that obscenity was actually a concept I grasped; nudity is just fun, you know?

There are only so many ways a prepubescent girl can think of to legitimately get Barbie naked though, and when I eventually figured I was mature enough to wear my own makeup, I figured I was of an age to start writing down my stories. Not to mention that working nudity into a game with my properly raised and god-fearing friends proved to be more difficult than it was worth. I would sit, in what I imagined was the brooding author pose, slouched over my crinkled papers, and stare at the streetlights down the road for inspiration. When I finally pieced together a two page story (and it was often about a girl, say, thirteen or fourteen years old who was rescued from chores, or homework or general tedium by the boy of her dreams), I would come downstairs for chocolate milk and accidentally tell my mom who would simply insist upon reading it, forcing me to hand it over.

Unfortunately, my ability to come up with the sort of stories worthy of a Passions or Lost episode died sometime as puberty was kicking in; I instead became woeful, bitter and, at one point, as deep as an “empty cavern” (whatever that means). Never mind Brett; I was a champion of my tumultuous emotions – the ones hidden by “smiles painted on my face” and unrequited by men who had “forgotten me” allowed me to consider myself truly artsy and brooding. I even carried a bloody book around. Though, looking through it now makes it painfully obvious that anyone with eyes and a passing knowledge of the English language should have told me that rants about immature high school kids do not make for good reading.

Long gone are the days of quadruplets, talking horses and witches in orange jumpsuits. My Barbies no longer play out odd fantasies, and Brett and the girls have made their way into the hands of the next little girl and the next set of adventures; it’s my creativity, though, that seems to have wandered off with them. No longer could I sit you down and tell you the story about the farm girl who fell through quicksand and, well… you can fill in the blanks. The point here is that I’ve come to resort to such bullshit as pretending that my own life is worthy writing material and have spent years trying to pass off my drinking stories as legitimate drama. But honestly, I’ve been wanting to meet a talking horse so bad.

Sleeping Naked

2009-04-23T00:57:00.002-07:00

Reasons Not to Sleep Naked
1. Bugs may crawl up your cootch.
2. Fire has an extra 56 seconds to engulf you, effectively ending any further sleeping opportunities.
3. Your roommates likely do not appreciate your ass as much as your Puerto Rican co-worker.
4. Sleepovers could get awkward.
5. In the case of alien abductions, successful anal probing would be much too easy.

6. Getting dressed with a full bladder in the dark can result in some highly unfortunate accidents.

Reasons to Sleep Naked
1. You are ready for sex at all times.

Unshakable Schedules

2009-04-16T16:32:00.007-07:00

When I was four years old, my parents caught me licking a handrail. And of course, being the rebel that I am, I wasn’t taste testing the sort of germs your average little girl is apt to lick; instead I had my tongue all over the banister of a busy downtown mall. In Kenya. Not only do I imagine I came out of that mall on my own two feet, but I’ve yet to test positive for either AIDS or malaria and I take that as my first introduction to invincibility.

Naturally, I’ve spent nearly every day since testing that theory. I’ve gotten lifts from the bar only to spend five hours in a buddy’s drug house prohibited from knowing the address to call a cab, I’ve hit the ground so hard I forgot where I was only to get back up and keep chasing down the ball, I’ve broken bones, bloodied knees, I’ve left home to live with foreign strangers at fifteen and I still refuse to wear a helmet when I bike. But Jesus, can time management really fuck me over.

As much as it wounds me to say it, I have to admit defeat. I am not superwoman. I am not invincible. Instead, a measly seven-day schedule can have me jittering like a twelve year old boy in a girl’s change room and I still have to somehow come off smooth enough to get laid over the weekend. By Tuesday evening, I’d be four wine bottles deep and praying that the three tests, two projects and twenty working hours I had yet to even start were behind me and that I might wake up next Monday afternoon with nothing to do.

Of course, it’s not as though I could simply stop trying to juggle everything at once. I’m young, robust and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up on any of the one things I’ve committed myself to – sit around and study all day when I could be sprinting hills before lunch and after class, calling my mom at the grocery store, and chugging mickeys between work and the bar? As if that were even an option. So fine, I gave in to that motherfucker of a schedule I made for myself and dragged my way through weeks of organized exhaustion; I disappeared from my favourite pub, spent Saturday nights too drunk to remember seeing my friends and, worst of all, let my keyboard get dusty. I spent every waking moment wishing I was drunker, or at least bruising bitches on the field, and let myself give up the one of the few things I do alone (excluding the time spend getting myself off).

Now that class is over, though, I can safely say that I have not only restocked my kitchen for the first time in five weeks but I no longer feel the need to neck punch most of the people I am forced to talk to on a daily basis. That being said, having the time to comprehensively envision the painful, prolonged deaths of the customer’s that call in at work has certainly helped. Give me another week or two, some time with my laptop, a good lay and I won’t be able to recall why on earth I shouldn’t do this again next semester. Me, invincible? Obviously.

Not to mention that writing five paragraphs devoted solely to myself has never failed to make me feel better, so fuck you.

Goals

2009-03-12T13:25:00.003-07:00

1. To have time enough to go through my day without having to schedule in fifteen minutes to take a dump. Although, adding another three hours to the clock would likely work.

2. To find an attractive man willing and able to do me properly, three or four times a day. Engaging personality and remote intelligence optional.

3. To conquer near every language known to man (five languages is hardly enough) exempting the made up ones, like Klingon or Chinese.

4. To fit rugby “enhanced” thighs into the jeans I wore last summer.

5. To have a housemaid willing to follow me around with a dustpan and excavate my bed from under my piles of clothes occasionally. A dishwasher would be nice too.

6. To be able to afford my own alcoholism and provide for that of my friends.

7. To purchase and wear shoes like normal women; although, I think that might require surgery to reduce not only my unfortunately elephantine feet but six-foot stature.

8. To make a living spending the most part of my day discussing myself (literally or otherwise) constantly. Hell, I’d settle for mild fame.

9. To achieve #8 by writing more interesting things than fucking lists.

Competing Cardiovascularly

2009-02-23T18:06:00.005-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls; I have an announcement to make. I, yes I, have been going on runs – runs for Christ’s sake. Oh but Tanysia, you might say, that’s nothing new, you play rugby after all. Of course I do; what the hell does that have to do with it? I play a contact sport, willingly subject myself to hours in the weight room and the whims of a coach who is more competitive than I am with a few beers and a pong table, but I do not like running. In fact, I more or less detest it. Yet, here I am, voluntarily folding up my laptop every second or third day and putting down the rice crackers to tie up my running shoes.

I have never been much of a runner, failing out of beep tests in grade school before I even broke a sweat and secretly praying my strep throat tests would come back positive during the cross country unit, although I can admit to a history of jock-like tendencies. If there was a boy to wrestle, a girl to body check or point guard to stuff, I was there. Ask me to be there faster than at walking pace though, and you were to be sadly disappointed. I would get there when I got there, never mind that cardiovascular bullshit.

Falling in love with sports, though, did eventually force me to face the fact that running to the ball was not just something my coach was yelling at me to do, but actually benefited my desire to win. So fine, I gave in and began to run a little; I would grudgingly do sprints at practice, tag along at the back during team runs and maybe book it down the field once or twice a game when the adrenaline peaked.

But never have I ever taken the initiative to hit the trail outside my house to run for a couple of kilometres of my own volition.

Rugby season this year, however, placed a solid boot to my behind and has gotten my ass to move like it never has before. This being the result of many months worth of my very own sweat, I was naturally loathe to let my newly minted behind soften over the Christmas break and concluded that I would actually follow my coach’s ridiculous advice and go run. So, gathering my resolve, I laced up my runners and stepped out onto the porch; this was it. Surveying the paved battleground before me I tentatively took a couple of long strides and then a couple more. Okay, not so bad. Didn’t I do this at game pace with the team three times a week? Next thing I knew, I’d done the five kilometre loop around my neighbourhood and had actually made it back without collapsing in convulsions, fainting, or shrivelling due to the excess energy burn (this would be quite the feat considering my stature, but you never know, right?). For whatever reason, running had become not only easier but semi-enjoyable. That’s right, running.

It wasn’t until one sunny afternoon when spring fever had me jittering in lecture like a six year old in need of a pee break and I ditched out on class to go running that it actually dawned on me. I was enjoying the activity for the first time in my life and it felt good. Fuck, I might as well have discovered I was superwoman. Getting a call from my mother shortly after this revelation, I jumped on the chance to gloat and quickly regretted it when I heard my mother experience what I’m sure was a quasi-aneurism.

“You- you did what? You went running?” she gasped, before telling me that she’d call me back once she’d had a bit of port.

Sadly enough, anyone I’ve known for a good proportion of my life responded to the discovery of my newfound like – I still can’t bring myself to “love” such an uncompetitive past time – with much the same shock. I suppose I wasn’t the only one who noticed I’d rather walk and miss the bus than risk running. Well hell, this new voluntary exercise thing has me past that and my youthful aversion to anything cardiovascular, and man do I ever plan on running down the competition.

With Love

2009-02-14T16:02:00.004-08:00

Dear Internet;

I understand I haven’t been so attentive lately, veering from my normal course of ramblings, curse words and stories I hope to God my parents will never, ever read only to abandon you for the cause of a published column – but, please, do me a favour and make me famous? After all, I can only rely on the outrage of bitter, old university directors for so long before I, too, get lost in a sea of nameless writing students. Hell, I’d settle for mild popularity at best and perhaps a couple hundred fans that haven’t directly met me – preferably some that don’t even live in the same geographical location as I do. That’d be cool.

You know what? For you, I might even divulge a few more stories detailing some of my recent less-moral indiscretions and risk the internet creeping skills my dad has seemed to develop of late. I do know just how much you enjoy my juvenile obnoxiousness! Besides, you know I love you so much more than any silly old newspaper – where else would I get to foster false hopes quite as fixedly as I do than with you?

Oh, and just for you this Valentine’s, I wrote a poem:

Roses are pretty, but Peonies cost more,
Thanks to you, though, I won’t forget Rule 34!

With love,
Tanysia

Do Me Financially

2009-02-07T00:48:00.002-08:00

I had never really thought about it before. Money, that is. At least not until last Christmas, when I received what I tacked up to be a second rate gift from parents out of ideas. Unwrapping a thin, rectangular object that I was secretly hoping would turn into my own personal Cabana Boy (or other such entertainment), I pulled out a book entitled “Making More Dough”. Great. Thanks ‘rents. It’s not likely I would ever be raking in much cash at any rate with a Bachelor of Fine Arts, so what was there to increase?

Still, curiosity finally pushed me to crack the book and suddenly I was nose deep in a chapter explaining how to cut bank fees and loving every word. Had I actually been spending at least three whole dollars every time I withdrew from a street corner ATM? Appalling! Could I really make ten bucks a month in interest on my savings account? Certainly! Revelling in what was sure to be new found affluence; I would walk into the mall, coffee shop, or the local grocery store with just that much more confidence. I would buy that half price tomato sauce and be able to afford it, goddamn it!

Turns out my new book was just as satisfying as the Cabana boy I had been dreaming of in the end (not that I’m about to let any willing candidates know that). Hell, I was even feeling hotter at the bar; money is sexy, after all. I could keep myself well hydrated without having to rely on the guys that sidle my way and offer to buy me whatever I was feeling that night — not that this was generally an issue, considering how long I’ve been perfecting my approach to pre-drinking and normally had a bottle of wine safely emptied at home. Being able to strut around in thriftily acquired designer jeans, brand new heels and picking up not the ten dollar, but the sixteen dollar wine left me feeling self-reliant, in control and with more assurance than is healthy for someone who already makes a career out of her confidence.

Nonetheless, when I accepted a tequila shot from a rather nondescript young man a few weeks into my new fiscal plan, I couldn’t help but wonder why there was something about his swank that had piqued my interest and had me suddenly giving him the once-over. I remembered, though, an encounter I’d had with a guy who I’d chalked up as my type only to have him spend three quarters of our (very brief) chat drunkenly boasting about how he had barely been able to afford cover that night, when it came to me that it was their show of financial security (or lack thereof) that had caught my attention.

Dad the ecologist would explain this away as my biological inclinations to find a well established man, but I’m sure it can be broken down to the simple fact that money is hot. Hell, if I feel like the meagre dollar or two I’ll be putting into my savings makes me powerful enough to control my fiscal future, what kind of statement are the shots bought for me and my four girlfriends making? After all, if he’s financially comfortable enough to drop some of his hard earned cash on me, instincts tell me he’s in control and has it together (no matter how disastrous he might turn out to be), and that’s fucking sexy – despite my book’s enthralling money saving tips.

Untamed Directions

2009-01-24T02:09:00.002-08:00

The other day I discovered that my hair first thing in the morning vaguely reminds my roommate of how complicated travel plans can become. The mirror before my morning coffee regularly reflects a mess of different choices and different directions I could take. Would it be best to head east, like the strand at the very back of my scalp? Or perhaps a trip, imitating the curl above my left ear, to Costa Rica and back would be the best way to go? In the end, most people would just sigh, wash out the tangles and do their hair exactly as they would any other morning. I, on the other hand, am left to struggle with the sort hereditarily stubborn hair that refuses to settle into any sort of decent direction and accept that I simply have to go with it; I simply have to take the course plotted by the rooster’s crest I awake to.

My compulsion to get up and leave has proven itself to be, like my hair, something I find uniquely difficult to tame. The very idea that I am stuck in one town for the next three years to do something as inconsequential as “graduate” strikes me as the sort of tragedy books are written on; or rather aren’t, considering the lack of inspirational new terrains or languages left to conquer in Victoria. Instead, I’ve taken it upon myself to scrape my already liver-drained bank account empty and go anywhere at any time the student life will let me.

The itch to follow the kinks in my early morning tresses began to really bite early last year and I started soliciting friends to follow me to Mexico; mundane and touristy but something I had yet to get a taste of (besides, who wouldn’t love to spend a solid week tequila soaked on a beach?). And did I ever fucking solicit; you could have probably seen the knee high boots and neon belly tops on Google Earth. Of course, I got plenty of offers; a little nudge from one friend proclaiming how much they’ve always wanted to visit Mexico, another saying they’d long dreamed of spending spring break on a beach and yet one more who nearly drooled as much as I did at the idea of unlimited drinks. But, somehow, whenever it came time for me to walk into the travel agency’s office and take a stab at my credit, the friend mysteriously came down with an inability to pull their shit together.

So I sat myself in front of a pitcher. Hey, if I couldn’t drown myself in tequila for spring break, I planned on spending plenty of time with the Canadian alternative. Dejectedly sprawled in a booth at my local pub and drawing borders in the foam at the bottom of my pint, it came to me that this was not the first time I had been forced to curb my wanderlust after a partner in crime had come to their senses. Other people had incomes they couldn’t put on hold, a second half they couldn’t peel from their hips, or, you know, shit to get done.

And yet none of this seems to have even the slightest effect on how I wake up every day. I still can’t get that cowlick to sit smoothly on my neck, deny myself an opportunity to be anywhere unfamiliar, or come close to comprehending why so many people can’t push themselves outside of their home circle. Why bother with all the wistful sighs and talk of packing up your suitcase if you can’t even bring yourself to get a passport? Then again, that leaves the untold stories, untamed hair and uncharted men for me.

Tried, Tested and Truant

2009-01-12T16:55:00.005-08:00

I still clearly remember the first time I skipped. My best friend of the week and I had ditched our eighth grade Health class to spend the 45 minutes rebelliously hiding out in the girls’ room, complaining about our monstrous parents and counting the paper towels stuck to the ceiling. It was glorious and it was the start of a long love affair with truancy.

At that age, though, just about everything I did was driven by a pubescent desire to stick it to the man; and, man, what was cooler than skipping? I could be both completely unproductive and have the time to be as catty as every fourteen year old girl needs to be. The basement bathroom became our lair; we would sit there for the period, trying to avoid both teachers and leaky toilets while discussing the more important things in life. Who had yet to develop a new set of womanly goods, who was slutty enough to French kiss a boy and how grossly inappropriate the Gym teacher was.

It wasn’t until I left for my exchange year in Switzerland that I discovered how much more of the world was open to me when I wasn’t confined to the classroom. I could easily spend my time visiting my friend the town over, on a shopping spree or, better yet, seeking out apples to hollow out for later use. By the end of the year, I decided to go back to a Français class I had been systematically avoiding, only to have the teacher exclaim that she had believed I had left the country a couple of months prior. Either way, it wasn’t like my time would have been better spent learning literature or chemistry in a language I barely understood.

Of course, I didn’t spend any of my time bothering to learn chemistry once I got back to my home soil anyway (after all, it’s not like knowing the melting temperature of iron is going to help me on my path to literary infamy), and my teachers quickly made a habit of congratulating me when I made it to class on time, if I managed at all. My homeroom teacher, however, had the misfortune of being both anally retentive and responsible for my attendance, and my love of truancy can be faulted for several of his panic attacks. At one point, my mother was called in to discuss my perpetual ditching, to which I kindly informed her that if I could maintain the sort of grades that would land me in any university I wanted, my attendance record could go stuff itself. What followed was the greatest maternal reprimand of my life.

“You are an asshole, Tanysia,” she told me over dinner that night, “and nobody is going to like you.” She was, of course, referring to the apparent lack of respect my absenteeism shows to both my teachers and classmates, but it was nonetheless one of the best and most inspiring quotes of all time. It was at that moment that I decided to prove my mother wrong. I would continue to spend as little time as possible in my classes, run in panting half way through a lecture and still somehow have friends.

So far, so good. As a matter of fact, I have yet to be called an asshole by any of my professors, nor by any of my friends; other than, perhaps, the time or two that I’ve directly insulted them (but that’s beside the point). The last couple of years at UVic have allowed me to determine I can avoid both class and being called an asshole. Take that, Mom.

Resolving What?

2009-01-12T16:50:00.002-08:00

It wasn’t until several days into the New Year that I realized it had even happened. After all, I don’t quite remember getting past the Eight! I shouted around 11 or so and, as far as I’m concerned, a booming headache does not mean the rest of the countdown ever reached Zero. But the evidence was against me; the calendars have changed, I’ve been forced to date my many bills with an ’09 and, somehow, it’s January again. Alright universe, I’ll take that extra 365 days to prepare for my next New Year’s hangover.

The question I’m faced with now, though, is not whether or not I’ve managed to survive until 2009, but rather what creative set of resolutions I need to come up with for this year. Were I to ask my mother, I would certainly be sat down with a bottle of her favourite Port while she admonished my heavy drinking and advised that I start thinking of my liver. I would undoubtedly sip from my glass and sagely refer to the old adage that “it’s not alcoholism as long as you’re a student.” Which of course means that, despite my mother’s (and numerous acquaintances’ and colleagues’) advice, I could not possibly resolve to drink any less liquor, nor would it be humanly possible to consume any more. Besides, I’m fairly certain liver transplants are common practice these days.

I suppose I could always rely on the old favourites of many a Resolutionist and try quitting smoking, exercising more or perhaps losing weight; but those are the most ineffective (not to mention bloody boring) resolutions I’ve ever heard of. While each resolution has its own merits and may very well be effective for your average accountant, I might as well tell myself “be healthier” and hope for the best.

Faced with a dilemma like this, I turned to my favourite fallback for imaginative solutions; TV. Within moments, I stumbled upon the Friends episode revolving around Ross’ decision to try something new everyday; not bad, I thought, in the way of resolutions. Supposing I could give it a try, I mentioned this newest decision to a friend of mine, who nearly choked on her beer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, T. What is there left to try that won’t get you killed?” Valid point.

Having thoroughly exhausted my ideas and my will to bother, I determined that this would be the year of no resolutions; the year of doing exactly what I feel like and no more nor any less. I will refuse to follow through on anything for any longer than I feel like and to start afresh at any point, on any date, at any hour. I will be a liberated woman, free to do exactly as I please without thought of the consequences for this New Year.

Not that a resolution like that changes a thing anyway.

A New Year

2009-01-05T18:33:00.008-08:00

Holy fucking shit.

Wait, what did I manage to do now? Did I leave my bra in my parents’ driveway again? Wake up three hours from home or accidentally end up with four guys snorting coke off of my naked ass? No, no, I can assure you that (unfortunately) I am actually quite put together and simply sitting in front of my little laptop as per usual. But… really? Jesus Christ.

It took a couple of minutes to register (alright, a couple beers and a drag or two) but I’ve actually been maintaining my own little corner of the internet for a solid year. A year, people. That’s more dedication to a self-motivated project than I ever would have thought possible of someone who can’t sit still for more than, give or take, five seconds at a time. And the fact that it’s not just a project but a bloody blog? That takes not only devotion, but an acquired ability to force myself to avoid gagging at the very thought that I have joined the hundreds of thousands who believe their mundane, laundry and traffic filled days are worthy of sharing. My ambitions are paired with those who feel it’s their duty to tell us their sister called them fat? Ugh.

I recently decided, though, that I would instead call it my “storysphere” and completely avoid the travesties of labelling my work and my glory as a “blog.” This way, I get to pretend that my eventual infamy is more of a reality than it would be were I just any other 19 year old woman sitting in a pub and publishing completely irrelevant material to the internet. This being obviously impossible, seeing as I really think of myself as more of a chick or broad- never mind woman.

The most fantastically bizarre thing about realizing that I’ve been supplying the internet with my nonsensical opinions and stories for over a year is realizing that there are actually saps out there who read it. Not only have I managed to convince the people who love me, but those who have only my stories to go on to applaud me for being a disaster. On top of it, there are still those who insist I work it like a real writer and try to market myself for my own benefit. Doing what; stripping with my web address written on my tits? Actually, now that I think about it, that just might be a fantastic idea- plus, it’s likely to draw in my target audience and make me all the more eligible to star on Jerry Springer.

It must be said that it is nonetheless more rewarding to know that there are people who appreciate my self-importance over that of the person who believes we care that they got dumped; especially since I never really liked that Humble Pie my mother was always talking about. The most satisfying part about managing to maintain my storysphere, however, is not the underground writer’s scene nor the obvious adulation I come across on a daily basis, but that I get to talk about myself for hours on end and call this “marketing.” So there, basement bloggers! Besides, who gets laid telling people they write a blog?

Ten Ways to Pretend to be Victorian

2008-12-31T19:59:00.005-08:00

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

2008-12-18T00:33:00.002-08:00

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

2008-11-26T13:22:00.002-08:00

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

2008-11-09T20:21:00.003-08:00

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

2008-10-29T01:33:00.005-07:00

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

2008-10-15T17:36:00.001-07:00

Every time I end up at an airport, I buy a Cosmo. It’s like my own little tradition, but thankfully devoid of the wholesome values and cheek pinches that come with the standardized ones. On top of it, for my 5 dollars or so, I get the pleasure of revelling in objectionable entertainment whilst quietly sitting between a coughing octogenarian and a blackberry addict, and what better way to spend time alone than to read about sex? The best part, though, is not the over-the-shoulder reading from my aisle mates or the obvious discomfort of the older men around me, but rather the well written and highly informative articles found within the Cosmopolitan pages.

How to score a boyfriend in ten easy steps? New positions to try on top of the microwave? Secret ways to lick male balls? Never has there been an issue that has failed to inform and delight me; without it I would not have been made aware of 3,382 different sex positions, the best ways to wax my cootch, or that with the right attitude I could make a fantastic girlfriend. Where would women (the ones that enjoy sleeping with men, to say the least) be without the tireless hours of gruelling research done by the good journalists at Cosmo? I could assume that men, at any rate, would spend much more time locked in their bathrooms with bottles of baby oil.

While once reading a step by step guide as to how to find the right pressure point beneath the scrotum and desperately trying to keep my magazine as close to my own face as possible, I had to wonder at the dedication of the article’s writers. What is the ultimate reward for the author and, more importantly, how would that even pan out in the bedroom? Sure, licking apricot jam from his nipples may spice up your love life, but wouldn’t that taste better on toast? Cosmopolitan must hire there writers for their undying commitment to map out his distinctive pleasure points even though, and I think most men would agree, it’s generally pretty straight forward.

Despite my affinity for it's bizarre confessional stories and ridiculous advice columns, Cosmo could undoubtedly use a feature or two focused entirely on my own gratification. Never mind vanilla sex and blowjobs for him, why not thoroughly investigate the best methods to get her off; hell, I'd gladly volunteer. At the very least, plenty of women would benefit from knowing how to save face while exiting hotels the morning after, or the best ways to tell your man you want to keep it physical and don't care to meet his grandmother. In the meantime though, I intend to continue giggling at the apparent lack of confidence or common sense most readers assumedly possess and to keep invoking awkwardness amongst those "uninterested" by articles detailing how to best excite his "member." Regardless, Cosmo will always be as ideal as female entertainment gets without involving naked muscle.

Granolafication

2008-09-21T20:08:00.002-07:00

It was one of those grass-lazing, sunglass-wearing kinds of afternoons when the worst suddenly dawned on me. There I was, wearing a dress in the middle of a park, with my bong in my lap and my bike leaned up against a tree explaining the fundamental differences between a bike theft in Fernwood and one downtown Victoria. According to my ganja inspired philosophy, I wouldn’t mind, maan, if, instead of a bratty fourteen-year-old punk, some homeless man who needed my expensive primary method of transportation rolled off with it. Following several seconds of communal silence, the essence of what had just come out of my mouth struck me.

Did I just say that? Did I, one of the biggest capitalists to ever hit the fine arts department, just admit that the theft of my bike would not bother me were it for a good cause? Well, fuck; it should seem my hemp wearing classmates and colleagues were finally getting to me. Either that, or I was hoping I had spent a little too much time in the sunshine.

Peddling home that day, I was suddenly very aware of the theatre down the road, the three coffee shops I could crawl to in early morning (or afternoon) caffeine-deprivation and the stacks of recycling boxes sitting in my driveway. Then there were my plans for later that day; the ones which comprised of running away with my bong and laptop to a coffee shop in Vancouver to brood and write away my troubles. None of this was all that worrying on it’s own, of course, but when placed in conjunction with my flowerchild roommates and the bright blues, yellows and violets of my little house, I begun to fear the potential loss of my redneck ways.

Even my book of expenses had been tracking my gradual granolafication: there, twenty dollars for fruits and vegetables found at the community market; here, fifty dollars for green inspiration. Where the hell was my record of meat-purchasing, cancer stick acquisitions, and oil and gas burning? How the fuck did I not even have a column for alcohol related expenditures? Instead, I had spent a good deal of my time and money on afternoons lying in parks on blankets, smoking shisha and, thanks to the influences of my guitar playing girl friends, singing Jack Johnson type music.

Cycling to school has since become a daily reminder of how badly I’ve been stained green. While watching my dream trucks roar by, I can’t help but tsk and think of myself as infinitely superior to those who burn gas as opposed to calories and spend money on an industry indirectly supporting my education instead of the sort of grass that inspires it. It’s been barely four weeks since I’ve returned to terrorize the island, and already I have contemplated buying lights for my bike and a helmet that I wouldn’t even be required to wear were I still living with the rodeo enthusiasts a province over. I finally did decide that I needed a lock, though. Parking downtown, I click the bolt in place and can’t help but feel the satisfaction that my bike will not be easy pickings for any of the needy and homeless that sleep outside my favourite coffee shops. So there, Victoria.

Smack That!

2008-09-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-31T21:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-05T06:31:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-05T06:29:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-18T06:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-21T17:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-17T16:10:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-25T18:17:00.001-07:00

“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

2008-04-28T22:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-02T13:38:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-31T18:03:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-18T15:56:00.000-07:00

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.

Mush, Shrooms and Flower Hours

2008-03-06T12:01:00.000-08:00

Suddenly realizing I actually had nothing urgent or pressing to have accomplished by the end of the day, it dawned on me that I had been neglecting my favourite medium of eventual world domination over the past month. I would like to pretend that it’s because I have been squirreled away with carrot sticks and my textbooks, but I really couldn’t bring myself to lie so blatantly. Seeing as this month may have actually been characterized by the abuse of our local donairs (the simultaneous triumph and demise of students and weed-smokers across Victoria) and the serious consideration as to why exactly people give out awards, my natural literary talents may have been slightly compromised. It’s hard to write when all you can think of is how the very concept of the letters themselves is odd. Reading week and a favourite adventurous friend of mine, furthermore, introduced the marvel of psychedelic mushrooms to me.

My roommate had offered a drive down to the ferries (and by that, I mean we volunteered our presence) to pick up her unsuspecting sister and, as a gesture of appreciation, we took it upon ourselves to make the trip a memorable one. Upon hearing of an experiment involving a meth addict and paint (much to my dismay, it did not actually involve painting the guy), we decided that as documentation of the day we would draw a flower each hour; a seemingly simple concept until one of the flowers was drawn with a rather frightening face. We made an excellent impression that morning; one of us bawling and the other cackling hysterically behind her sunglasses.

The resulting drive back through happier trees than those who had met us at the ferry docks led us to an Iced Cap and what we discovered to be a gnome receptacle. This was, logically, a place where gnomes gathered for their daily coffees but was unfortunately not a place where two young women could wander without scrutiny. We rushed in, questioned the proximity of the water to the sink, and ran back to the safety of my roommate’s car where we informed her of the oddities we were leaving behind. For some absurd reason, this led her to believe that the Asian man walking down the street was a gnome as well (where she would get that idea is beyond me).

Familiar trees met us at home and we found ourselves approaching the next hour and the second flower of the day. A friend with a rather inexplicable affiliation for Mandelbrot sets thought to distract us with the swirling designs and colours, but I had a flower hour to take care of. Obviously, the construction of time is much more imperative than mathematic equations. We had at that stage realized that we were not simply documenting time and our trip, but held the singular power to meld it to our own needs (do you realize how long I have been trying to achieve that sort of command?); and thus I triumphantly held up my second, rather melted flower. My friend had drawn a goose.

With time in our hands, we marched into the unknown in search of the next adventure and the next possible conquest. A rendezvous with several of our guy friends enjoying the heights of BC brought us through a forest inhabited by numerous small green men and some attention seeking bushes (neither of which I had ever seen before, oddly enough) where the guys indulged us in scratching the third flower hour into the forest floor and brought us finally to “The Structure.” And yes, it was a Structure. Not a house or statue, but rather an impressive wall and stairs built into the side of the hill and artfully decorated with noisy tags and faces; a crowning glory amongst pointless constructions everywhere. Out of spite for the disgruntled wall, we posed ourselves and a variety of well rolled supplies in the sunshine to enjoy and examine the view the forest offered. It wasn’t long before I made the astounding discovery that nature is in fact designed completely out of triangular shapes and upon proclaiming this breakthrough, we launched ourselves into another era of time- an abstract one.

Thoroughly sun-baked, we made our way back through the wilds and encountered the flowers we had drawn earlier, unwittingly trapping ourselves in time. Neither one of us could go backwards nor forwards; somehow, I had remained ignorant of the dangers of retracing your steps before our trip. Fortunately, the guys managed to pull us forward and kindly supplied us with a Kokanee beer backpack to supply us when next we would need to record the passage of time (marked this time by a dandelion and a time wheel; we truly were the artists of a new epoch).

Back at home and unable to separate ourselves, we instead (quite literally) planted ourselves on the floor with a bottle of water. The water, oddly square and angular to the taste, nourished the growth of the massive roots that had managed to fasten us to the ground, preventing us from leaving with any speed whatsoever. We might have stayed there for days, wise as trees, but a calling for pumpkin pie was enough to pry us off the ground and quickly became the marker for the final flower hour. The consumption of the pie proved itself to be our downfall (as is often true in adventures) and brought the concept of time back to conquer our own acquired abilities.

As self-assured as I may be (it should be clear by now that humility is not one of my best attributes) I know when I have been beat and, regrettably, time had the upper hand. So I retreated to my bed and blankets and spent the rest of the night stumbling through online videos (a- literally- highly recommended activity).

Documenting such adventures, as I have discovered, are quite impossible while holding on to the belief that diamond shaped objects are much more active than rectangular ones and without a proper sense of the current 24 hour clock. Carrot sticks alone could never keep from dominating the literary world.

Save This, Greenpeace

2008-02-26T13:25:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-31T14:21:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-22T14:02:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-21T11:45:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-10T22:56:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-08T22:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-08T22:08:00.000-08:00

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 of Victoria shall now be known for detoxifying one Miss Tanysia. Who would have thought?

Real Degrees

2008-01-08T22:06:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-08T22:05:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-08T22:04:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-08T21:59:00.000-08:00

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.