Top Illegal Bus Stop Activites

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.

Formal Apologies

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

Viceps

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.

Stations

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 !

Research

“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.”

Travelling Tips

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.

Unshakable Schedules

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.

Tried, Tested and Truant

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?

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.

30 Some-Odd Reasons to Drink

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing Down

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

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

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

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

Exchanging Bullshit

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

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

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

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

Cheers to the Nostalgia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To dancing on washing machines and raving with the driers.

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

Take ‘er EC for the summer!

The Unnecessary Accessory

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

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

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