Isn't It Ironic? Yeah Don't You Think

I managed to get hit with one of the worst headaches of my life today which, somehow, slowly transformed into a headache + nausea. As I was huddled into a fetal position on a bench during my work lunch break, a street performer was singing some stupid song that had the lyrics "I'm in heaven," in it. I just looked up in utter horror and was like "Are you fucking kidding me?!"

Value Village Just Got Served

Sometimes, when Mercury aligns with the seventh moon of Jupiter, and your local psychic (aka drug dealer) forecasts the aura of purple candor, you find yourself without a single responsibility for a period of 24 authentic hours. You've got an empty slate, an open book, and you can choose to write the events of your day with any pen you want. Metaphorically speaking, you could pick a lemon scented smelly felt, a boring pencil, or a chewed on bic pen that still has a little bit of spit on it from the last time you were chewing on it. Yesterday Al and I chose the latter.

Not too long ago, in the city of Surrey, Value Village got knocked up and gave birth to a cute little store named Talize. Talize is better than V.V. in my opinion, 'cause most of the pants don't have pee encrusted crotch stains, and they have the most expansive array of possessed-hair-chopped-off dolls that stare you down no matter where you are in the store. If Talize was walking home late one night, and Value Village came out of the shadows and was all "Hey give me your money!" Talize would definitely pull some shit that would make V.V. kiss it's second hand cowboy boots. Shit you couldn't even fathom because it would blow your mind and make you cry from the fragile beauty of its subtlety. I should be getting paid for this Talize advertisement.



Al got two shirts, and I got the sweetest pair of high tops this world has ever seen. I'm sure whoever parted with these babies was having a tough time letting go. She probably didn't have enough money. She probably thought about her decision for weeks finally coming to the conclusion that she'd never be able to provide the kind of life for them that she knew they truly deserved. The night she left the awesome hightops on Talize's doorstep she must have been distraught and full of guilt; wiping her salty tears away, and looking back only once to bid her lovelies a silent farewell. It's with the deep understanding of her pain that I am now able to rock out, pimp this town, and bring the funk in these kicks. And they were $3 so...

When Al was in the changeroom some woman tried to get the apathetic cashiers to give her an added discount on a dress that "Smells so bad, Oh God, it smells so bad. Seriously, you have to do something about this, mark it down." I was like, oh c'mon, the whole store smells bad, that's why EVERYTHING is discounted.



As our searching and scavenging was nearing an end I pointed to a size 100 pair of pants with flags plastered all over it and said "Hey Al, what about these?"

Allan cocked his head to the side, gave a contemplative pause, and then shook his head no.

"I think someone died in those."

That Warm Fuzzy Feeling

I decided to track a random link today and realized that somone had found my site by typing into google "I'm sorry, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit." Yeah, that's right, I'm the number one hit for that search. It's nice to know that vomit is what lures people in; you know, the stuff your body violently expells when you've injested, say, poison. The same stuff that ejects from your mouth after you saw a cat's brain in a jar of liquid on your grade one field trip to the vetrenarians.

Up chuck, barf, blow chunks, vomit, ralph, spew, heave, retch, hurl, puke...That's me.

The Po Po

Ever since Allan got his license taken away I've been absolutely petrified of cops, speeding, speeding while in the vicinity of cops, and police. I think the 80's rainbow reflective sunglasses and the intimidating blank stare of that robo-cop who pulled us over will forever be seared in my mind. When he came to the window I half expected him to say "Have you seen this boy?" and then I'd be like "GOOO AL GOOO, IT'S THAT GUY FROM TERMINATOR!!!" Unfortunately, he said something like "Do you know why I pulled you over?" and a gave us a look that meant business.

As I was driving today, through various bouts of traffic, I started to get really caught up in my music. Sometimes you manage to listen to a song that completely and fully epitomizes your current mood, desires, and intentions and you start to forget that there are provincial laws in place called "speed limits". I can't even remember what I was listening to, but I do remember hearing sirens. I think it was somewhere around that time that I kind of stopped breathing, and just about shit myself. I pulled over, he pulled over, and I rolled down my window.

"Ma'am, do you know why I pulled you over?" This guy looked really unenthused.

"Uhh, because Ben Harper was bringing the funk?"

"Excuse me? Are you giving me sass?"

"No, sorry sir."

"You know, considering this is rush hour and most cars can't even do the posted speed limit, I'm pretty surprised I had to pull you over. Generally people go under the speed limit."

I didn't know what he wanted me to say. To be quite honest, I wasn't even sure if he wanted a response at all. However, he didn't budge and he didn't talk, so I decided that I had to."

"Well I guess I don't really want to follow the crowds heh."

Being the wannabe comedian that I am, I actually tried a joke on him. Half because I thought it would go right over his head, and half because I thought maybe he'd laugh and then let me go. Apparently he didn't think it was too funny. His look said "Not funny you pitiful deviant."

"Do you think law enforcement is a joke ma'am?"

Once again, he never really made it clear whether he ACTUALLY wanted me to respond. I gave it one last try.

"Well, only on Wednesdays, and hey, what's today again. Holy crap (I did not say "shit") it's Wednesday! Maybe that means you could give me a joke ticket?"

I wish I had just one person with me to witness what happened next. The cop looked to the side, and I actually caught him smile just a tiny bit. He shook his head, took off his aviators, and looked at me.

"Ma'am, your trunk's open. You weren't even speeding, just thought I'd let you know."


(Alright, dad, that didn't actually happen, I just made it up so breathe in, out, good.)

For The Girl Who Considers This Blog A "Distraction"

Because of the looming danger of afternoon traffic, driving to school is always a gamble. There's the trusty public transit option, but that usually involves people who pick their nose, see me looking at them while they pick their nose, and then carry on regardless. I generally take the nose picking option, but today I gave myself (but not the environment) a break. You see, I really have to reinforce here that my steering wheel, while lacking in the luxurious leather padding area, does not have the snot of strangers on it; for this, I prefer my car.

Today after trying to muster all I know about Abraham's covenant with God (I bloody hope it was Abraham) on my final exam, I decided to de-stess by visiting my friend Alanna. If I spelled your name wrong again Alanna then you know what? BITE ME I CAN'T SPELL YOUR MY-PARENTS-ARE-HIPPIES-AND-THEY-GAVE-ME-AN-ALTERNATIVE-SPELLING NAME! I like Alanna because she likes to make me feel uncomfortable by talking about non-public things VERY LOUDLY when we're in public, and on some level I think that's good for me. On one particularly memorable night a priest got on the very bus that myself and the very intoxicated Alanna were on aswell. I whipped around and told her that if she valued any aspect of our friendship that she had better keep her rambling mouth shut. I'm not sure whether it was the malicious look on my face or the purity being exuded from the priest, but Alanna magically kept the embarrassing comments to a minimum. This would be the same blonde-haired blue-eyed friend that used a Metis Status Card as ID back when she wasn't legal. If nothing else, she's inspirational.

However, even the appeal of Alanna wears off when I realize that traffic may just swallow me whole if I don't get my act together and book it to my car. For some stupid reason the university puts student residence way in the middle of nowhere, possibly to give the kids a genuine Canadian wilderness feel to write home about.

Somehow, by the same priestly luck that got me out of the bus incident, I managed to get home without getting shit on by the traffic monster. I was coasting, giving the traffic in my rear view the ol' finger, and enjoying my good fortune when a big semi wanted to bypass lots of cars and then just cut in infront of me. Now I realize that if you change lanes solely by your adept driving skills and don't force me to brake, then you are completely and fairly exempt from giving me a wave. HOWEVER, if I let you in by the goodness of my heart and took it upon myself to brake, then you give me a god damn wave. Allan and I have a habit of threatening people from inside our car with a "Give a wave...now. Give a wave bitch, give a wave oh no you- ok there we go, got the wave." On the off chance that people are too dense to abide by the rules of driving etiquette, then we usually talk impolitely about how inbred they are. It's not hard people, lift forearm, move side to side; it means thankyou and I like your hair.

I think the underlying message in this post is clear: Just because you buy exotic fruits doesn't mean you're cultured.

Or something like that.

This Is What Procrastination Looks Like

Glub Glub

Sebastian fluttered and swayed in the wind. Strung up by a hook in his mouth, he was left to hang, to "swim" in the air for everyone to see, but no one to really notice. Through rain, snow, and sun, he hung.

"Do you think I'll ever just swim like other fish?" he asked to the expansive blue.

There was no answer, not unlike what he had expected, and he was left once again alone with his troublesome thoughts. Sebastian's true aspirations had been to become a choclatier, but those dreams had been put on hold ever since the capture. He watched one car, two cars, the chipped paint on the side of the house, his reflection in the window, three cars. He fell back on the rippling air, it jolted him, pushed him up, in a circle and then faded once more. Sebastian was still.

"Strange," he thought, "The air that holds me captive is the air that I fall back on."

He glubbed, glub glubbed. Glub

Hey, Don't I Know You?

Yesterday and today have been so awesome. The sun has finally come out to play and it's actually kind of warm. I've lived in Vancouver my whole life and I still don't get used to the long rainy season. Every time spring/summer time comes around I'm magically surprised for the whatever-eth time. It's almost like I don't fully believe that the rain will ever succumb to the sun, and just GO AWAY. I was trying to sit outside and study, but it was such a joke; the sun got me so high that I didn't care about doing anything but lying down and taking the occasional picture.

I would equate the first few days of Vancouver sun to bumping into someone you haven't seen in a really long time. Maybe like when you go to 7-11 at some random hour of the morning because you convinced yourself that you would die a slow painful death if you were to forego buying yourself that licorice that sev seems to have a monopoly on. As you walk down the aisle with the five cent candy, the baby bottle pops, and the glorious licorice, someone says your name and you look up to see that guy, oh my god what's his name, that guy you sat beside in Chemistry way back when. Only seeing the sun isn't an awkward chance meeting, it's one of those rare comfortable chance meetings. You're actually kind of happy to see that no name ex-chem-classmate dude because hey, he was kind of funny. Did he remember that one time he blew up his own binder in an experiment and had nothing to study from. He remembers, you both laugh and quietly say something about "highschool, good old highschool." You notice he's buying an energy drink and make some corny joke about it being like speed and he actually laughs regardless of it's lack of hilarity, because he's not an asshole. The sun feels good like remembering and reminiscing can feel good. You both agree how good it was to see each other and then you say something about running into each other again. You buy the licorice, he buys the energy drink, and feel kind of good because you remember that some parts of highschool you really liked; then you realize that you were drunk on optimism, and nostalgia can really do a face lift on things.

You get in your car, it starts no questions asked, that song you wanted to hear comes on the radio, you tap tap tap your steering wheel and drive.

The sun still does that to me. It surprises me every year, it brightens some aspect of my day, and sometimes even makes me put studying into perspective.

This Situation Would Register As A Number One On The Panic Scale, Mother

Something I've taken to discussing with my mom is her tendency, or inability rather, to produce varying levels of panic. A rabid pack of rottweilers devouring her first born child, or realizing that she had forgotten the shopping list would evoke dangerously similar reactions. Because of her habit of doing this, I have suffered countless panic attacks wherein my mind goes through a stream-of-conciousness thought process that includes believing that someone has been run over by a semi, put their arm through a meat grinder, or ingested bleach. Usually my thoughts are cut off by my mom saying something like "Damnit, the cashier charged me twice for the organic bananas."

I've suggested a system that involves DEGREES of panic, stress, etc. in hopes that maybe, after seeing me clutch my heart and stop breathing, she would adopt it and actually put it to use. Alas, I think we need to take baby steps and this is more like giant ones. Maybe we could implement different catch phrases? Things like 1. Oh gosh darn that's too bad. 2. Whoa, not good. and 3. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THIS IS SERIOUS! I think that might bring a little more clarity to her life and mine, but mostly mine.

Tonight as I was studying she cried out in frustration about something, consequently causing my blood pressure to sky rocket. I whipped around to look at her, what she was doing, and ultimately what was wrong, only to see a big "GAME OVER" on her computer screen.

"God damnit, I was almost at that level with the red teddy bears. The red teddy bears are so much better than the pigs and cows, but you have to beat so many levels to get there and I was soooo close. Whatever, this game is so stupid and it's making me blind. I'm going to bed," she professed as she got up and left the computer.

Dear Impatient Shitface

Dear Impatient Shitface,

Do you remember me? We were on the Burrard Street Bridge when you decided to be a fat douche bag. There was a big orange pylon in the middle of my lane and considering the fact that I don't have hummer and therefore can't drive over large objects, I had to stop and change lanes. I gave you notice, I put my flicker on, there was no suddenness or abruptness in my decision to stop. Regardless, you decided to come up behind me, become aggravated, and then lay on your horn. I'm sorry that you're such a fucking prick, that you made no efforts to be understanding or brainstorm about possible reasons for a random stop. Did you think I was doing it for my own amusement? Did you think I wanted to get honked at? Are you an over paid old cranky senile obese grey haired man with an obnoxious license plate that said something like "PURRR". Yes, yes you are. I liked that after you had been honking at me for a while you changed lanes, went beside me, and then honked some more while giving me the evil eye. You did it in such a manor that you neglected to see the pylon, and probably still think that I was the idiot. That's the only sad part about it all; you'll never understand that infact it was you in your ugly car that was the embarrassment. Try to be a little more observant, look around, and please, for the love of whatever you believe in, turn down the assholeness. Were you in a hurry to get to Bingo night? Were you late for the old folks home curfew? Did your daily prune juice just kick in? Was it Im-A-Big-Stupid-Asshole-Detriment-To-Society-Day and I just didn't remember?

I hope you had a really awesome night full of herpes ridden hookers.

Sincerely, Carmen

...And You Lose Some

This morning I told myself that I'd eat really healthy, you know, after all the Easter chocolate and pie. I got off to a good start with some green peas but hit a slight bump in the road later on. As I was periodically spraying whipping cream onto my finger and then licking it off, I suddenly remembered my earlier plea. I suppose you could say I have a selective memory.

Why I Hate Public Transit: Reason 874

My Spanish oral exam went really well today. If that last sentence was to have been spoken rather than written, an undeniably obvious level of sarcasm would have been evident. Yeah, jealous?

My professor picked a random topic from a bag, and for me it was Columbia. Basically I had to talk to her about everything and anything I knew about the aforementioned country, but unfortunately, my knowledge was, and still is, quite limited. The instructions for the test had been given in spanish, which strangely enough, is the same language we are there to learn. I decided that I really only had a few choices; bullshit the best I could, book it out of there with a quick "lo siento", or jump out of her 7th storey window. I chose option number one.

I started off by assuring her that Columbia, good ol' Columbia, was something that I knew plenty about. Did she know that the Latin Sensation Shakira was from Columbia? Was she aware that Columbia was embroiled in a dangerous and profitable drug predicament? Had she seen the movie "Blow"? I think that was when my partner interjected with a "Jonny Depp es muy guapo," coincidentally at the same point I was running out of pop culture references to talk about. I concluded it all with a comment about how my boyfriend got a Fidel Castro haircut. I know he has nothing to do with Columbia, but hey, Cuba is a spanish speaking country AND it starts with a "C". She probably thought I was on El Mushrooms.

On my routine bus ride home the hypnotizing motion of the monster vehicle began to work it's magic, and I felt my eyelids becoming heavy. The movement of cars, like nothing else, can put me to sleep with an effect only paralleled by a wild boar tranquilizer. I was half listening to my iPod, half paying attention to the dream thoughts I was mulling over in my head when I heard a booming voice.

"TIME TO GET OFF THE BUS!" it screamed.

I looked around me and I was completely alone. Slightly disoriented, still quite drowsy, I headed towards the bus doors with no real certainty of my surroundings. Was I even in the same city? Why was there no one else on the bus? Why was I on a bus?
As the clarity slowly made it's way back into my mind I realized that everyone had just left me there. Not one person tapped me on the shoulder, gave me any heads up that, hey, we're all getting off now. Nope, they just let me sleep there and await my unwritten fate. Transiters are so "I'm gonna fend for myself and let that strange girl sleep". C'mon people, where is the self decency? The altruism? DO YOU HAVE NO SHAME?

So I've devised a strategy to seek out everyone from that 99 bus and destroy them. I think the plan is to run over them with a bus so that I can turn them into people pancakes with just the slightest touch of satisfying irony.

I Never Suspected Her For A Murderer

My favourite part of tonight's Easter dinner with the family was when my gramma responded quite thoughtfully to something my brother had said. You could see her evaluating the situation in her head, giving an adequate pensive pause, and then, with utter conviction and certainty she said:

"Well, in that case, I think you'd have to kill him."

She Was Generous Enough To Give Me A Fat Ulcer

My sister needed to get fabric for sewing today so she asked me if I wanted to come with her. I thought about it, resolved that I had way too much work to do, and then went with her. She wondered if I minded if she drove? Yes, but sometimes you have to let them fly out of the nest even if you know they're gonna nose dive. She'll probably get mad when she reads this but whatever, YOU FUCKING STRESS ME OUT. I'm ridiculously inept at dealing with anxiety, I don't need more of it.

She drove as the rain pelted down, I told her to stop looking for CD's and focus on just the driving part, she looked for CD's. We talked about how I had just realized that Ben Harper was black after seeing a black guy on the cover of his CD. Oh right Carmen, that would be the artist himself. I don't know, I guess I thought he was a "soulfull" white guy; not that it ends up being relevant. I turned on the radio after I gave the verdict that all her CD's sucked, we listened to all those songs that you hate but then end up knowing all the words to. The songs that you hope will come on during your monotonous drive home because you wouldn't actually be caught dead listening to them, let alone downloading and burning them to a CD. Damn you Kelly Clarkson, I love to hate you but I gotta say, since you've been gone, I can breathe for the first time...

Before we went into the fabric store I anticipated the stereotypical grandmother-like workers with glasses that magnify their beady eyes, the token awkward teenage girl employee wearing a vest festooned with buttons and embroidery she obviously crafted herself, and some cracker jack buying the ugly fabric that has toasters and whisks strewn across it. The only reason I subjected myself to it all was because I have exams, and well, what else was I going to do? Study?

As we soon found out, the fabric portion of the store was no longer. We had driven, (well, she had driven) for half an hour just to look at ugly hand sewn old lady clothes. I sincerely wish that there had been fabric because that would have prevented my sister from trying to find Fabricana, and coincidentally getting us lost. When we were in the middle of suburbia, where every house looks too much like the last, I began to get worried. The gas light came on as a polite little reminder that possibly, perhaps, it would be in our best interest to get some gas and avoid getting fucked over. I kind of think that light should be in the shape of a person with a gun to their head and the words "Try it," instead of the ghetto gas pump that doesn't even exist anymore. Yeah, that might be a little more honest. I refrained from telling her that the light had never actually gone on before on flat ground.

I guess I should put our little trip into perspective though; we didn't run over any kids, I only had to remind her once or twice that yes she had the right of way and no that car didn't have a stop sign, and we actually made it to a gas station. Since the gas station was all full serve, my sister rolled down her window and tried to tell the attendant how to open the gas gauge. I gave an exasperated sigh, got out of the car, and did it myself. When I got back in she asked me why I did it myself.

"Well Megan, it's not very easy to explain to someone that they need the keys not to unlock the gas tank, but to shove in the hinge and force open the broken release. That might confuse some people."

"Oh."

MEaster?

Today when I woke up I decided, in true procrastinatory style, that I'd go to the store before trying to make my brain commit to studying. It wasn't until after I had gotten dressed, eaten, etc. that I realized that hey, maybe stores aren't open because of that holiday. What's it's name? Oh right, Easter. It made me think about what Easter means to me; a teenager with no religious upbringing, no history of church attendance, and no bible on my shelf. Is this the weekend that the Easter Bunny was born?

When I was younger Easter fit into the "Days When You Get Presents And Sometimes Don't Have To Go To School" category. This included Christmas, Halloween, my birthday, and Tooth Fairy visits. I always sort of pictured a far away place where all the holiday mascots would hang out in their downtime, considering that most of them really only worked one day a year. Santa would play cards with the Easter Bunny, slamming his fist down with every loss but still managing to give a hearty laugh. "Oh Easter Bunny you are one sneaky little bugger. You really do know your "Go Fish". The Tooth Fairy would be somewhere in the background singing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion kareoke style because, for the 9th year in a row, she had way too much egg nog, and Mrs. Clause would be staring down Santa, watching his occasional glances over to the T. Fairy and muttering something under her breath about "...a two cent whore...". They all had stressful jobs, were expected to act quickly in the night, stay hidden during the year, and make strategic mall appearance now and then. I thought that these mascots were really the glue of society, always bring people together and sending families into bankruptcy. As for my exposure to religious figures, I'd say it was limited to that time in kindergarten when I coloured and cut out a baby Jesus, and handed it to my partner that was eating our glue.

I don't think I'll go deep into any religious discussion because it could only ever be my opinions, and opinions often lead to distress that I'd rather not deal with. I will, however, say that I find it interesting that I've never had a day off school or work for a Sikh, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, etc. Religious holiday. Maybe Canada needs to diversify it's holidays?

So what is Easter to me personally? It's chocolate, getting to spend some time with the family I never see, memories of egg hunts, my brother barreling around the house getting 96% of the candy but then having to share it with my sister and I because our parents are fair. Easter to me is finding a previously undiscovered egg on the top of my fireplace mantle in July, appreciating the rarity of my discovery, and realizing that yes, that Bunny is a sneaky bugger.

I Feel Good

...like I knew that I would, I feel nice, like a mother fucking sugar and spice.

After a final exam this morning, getting home in two and a half hours instead of thirty five minutes, being hired for a new job, and knowing I don't have to wake up tomorrow for anything, I feel so, damn, good. It's the kind of top-notch sensation that you can only experience when you just crossed the billy goat bridge, told the troll that he could shove his toll bullshit up his ass, and realized that yes, infact, the grass over here is much much greener. And succulently delicious.

It's the kind of good you feel because you're a spoiled brat and you detest the expensive opportunity called school that you selectively got to partake in. The same good that comes as a result of telling your Teacher's Assistant that you would personally seek out his car and egg it if he doesn't give you a good mark. The good that looks like a CD and when you play it in your car pumps out some awesome TV on the Radio. The good that makes you forget that you called your mother at work yesterday to tell her that you had tetanus, that you really truly had tetanus and were going to die because the internet told you so.

Yeah, that ridiculously good.

Trying To Do My Hair

I Wanna Feel The Wind Flowing Through My Hair

I decided the other day that I would play a little trick on Allan; partly because he's gullible and partly because I'm a malevolent psycho whose beast. It was a nice afternoon, we were lying around in his room, both of us procrastinating the pressing matters of homework and responsibility.

"Al, you know what I decided? Lately I've started to realize that all those things I used to care so much about are so trivial. Like what other people think of me, if I'm looking hot or presentable. I don't know, there's something so fake about being the person you think others want you to be."

I was trying to go so far into the stereotypical "university changed my outlook on life" paradigm, and I knew he would eat it all up. I wanted to knock the wind out of him so I took it a little further. I could tell he was beginning to worry that I was going to drop some kind of bomb.

"Yeah, so basically I'm choosing to stop shaving my legs."

I pulled up my pant leg to show him my unshaved in probably two months leg hair, and I'm half Spanish so my hair is pretty lusciously dark. He looked at my leg, then slowly moved his eyes upward until he reluctantly met my gaze. I stared back at him with the most beautifully executed earnest look. I smiled.

"Not gonna shave your legs? Er...cool."

At this point I'm thoroughly enjoying myself; Allan is in so much pain. I knew very well that he wasn't going to try to talk me out of my new endeavour because that would be somehow, on some level, demanding that I conform to biased norms (if I were to put it into some politically correct context). It was perfect, arresting, and he was incontrovertibly cornered.

"So baby, are you gonna wear skirts and stuff in the summer?"

"Yeah ofcourse, it'll be so hot. Don't worry you can hardly notice it (ridiculous lie)."

I could only explain his facial expression as the look of someone trying to shit out a kitchen chair. He's never been much of a liar. I gave him a big hug and told him how much better I felt to be past that image is everything kind of bullshit. He was silent.

A few hours later I couldn't help but notice how down Allan was, he looked positively depressed. It was time for phase 2 of my plan: obliviousness.

"Babe what's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing! Oh nothing, hah, did you think something was wrong? No, no, no. Nothing."

"Alright Al, let's not play the couple anger game."

"I don't know what you're talking about?"

"No? What's wrong? Nothing. What's wrong? Nothing. What's wrong? Well...Let's just pretend I've asked you what's wrong 17 times, you've said nothing 17 times, and then now we've fast forwarded to number 18 where you actually tell me what's bothering you."

Allan looked up at me, his eyes without a trace of happiness. He was deep in thought, most likely contemplating whether or not he should say the very thing that may result in crushing me. He had very few options that would result in anything good, he knew this too well. Allan is a gambling man however, a great player of poker, he had risked before. I could detect more than a little apprehension and blatant fear. My insides were smiling.

"Carm...I...It's just that..."

He was practically choking with indecision. What came next was among the meekest of utterances.

"But I like it when you shave your legs," said Allan as he braced himself for the explosion. He climbed into his bomb shelter, quickly closed the ceiling door latch with an abrupt "clank". He closed his eyes.

"Al, I was joking."

He opened his eyes and grinned. He got that irresistible twinkle in his eyes that only comes when he's just finished updating his computer. He hugged me so hard and told me he'd make me something to eat.

Needless to say, I still haven't shaved my legs. Yeah, hot.

What Did You Say?

me: Ah my back hurts so much.

my sister: Carmen! Grow up.

me: What the hell are you talking about? I'm lying down and I said that my back hurts.

my sister: GET up.

me: Oh, is that what you said? Sorry, I totally thought you said "grow" up.

my sister: Well actually, I said "grr" up but I was hoping you wouldn't notice.

me: You're an idiot.

Organic Pain

Hi, my name is Carmen and I'm a blogoholic.

Sometimes Allan likes to tease me about my "addiction" to blogging/reading blogs and I always get defensive. Sure I do it a lot, yes I enjoy it, but comparatively speaking we're talking about reading online, not huffing glue. Besides, I could stop anytime I want, really, I could.

Strangely enough, this morning I found myself on Granville Island and happened to be walking by a cafe. There was a sign that said "Free wireless internet", which essentially drew me in by pure magnetic force. I walked in and looked at the menu board to scope out the least expensive item they sold. I didn't see it up there but I asked for a plain tea and the girls pointed to a strange wooden box with little bags of tea. I think the wooden box factor should've tipped me off for what I was about to buy, but I was still wiping the drool of my chin due to FREE wireless internet. I wanted to sort everything out so I asked the girl "Uh, can I use my own computer?" and I made sure to point to the computer to emphasize the MY factor. The girl said yes while giving me a look that said "I deal with stupid customers like you all day. Please, for the love of god, drown yourself. Now." She followed the look by ringing up my tea which came to $3. I had already gotten myself in too far to run out of the store so I paid, sat down, and thought about my expensive tea. The wooden box? Yeah that meant organic. Apparently, when the herb-y tid bits that float in your hot water were grown without f'n pesticides they cost a whole lot more. Basically, when you buy organic you justify the consuming guilt of spending too much money with the thought of earnest and noble farmers harvesting their peppermint leaves the good ol' fashioned way.

I was really glad that the ambulance came after I was forced to saw off my left leg in order to pay for my organic tea. They were so polite and courteous with a "Don't worry," interspersed with "It'll all be done soon," every so often. As I laid on the stretcher I thought about how lucky I was to have used the free internet, but more than that, how giving up my left leg was worth every second of checking my blogs. As the ambulance workers bandaged my open wound I suddenly realized that they could've been using the wrong bandage.

"Is that bandage organic?" I blurted out in a moment of panic.

"Don't worry miss, 100% organic Peruvian hemp."

Drama Used To Be My Favourite Class

Going to school has an uncanny ability to make you feel sorry for yourself. I’m well aware that in writing that last sentence I am confirming all that is wrong with 1st world nations, but I have a tendency to believe in its verity. Sometimes after two buses, a skytrain ride, and a 20 minute walk I begin to question what I’m doing at university, and if inevitably I’ll end up putting my degree towards a challenging and fulfilling job of serving caramel machiatos at Starbucks. Or there are the times when I’m in the midst of writing a ten page essay on "The Representation of Gender and Sexuality in Buffy the Vampire Slayer” when I ask myself “Hey, is this worth thousands of dollars?" I'm sure that in my future career I'll be thanking myself for pursuing a good education, for taking a challenging route, and for equipping myself with the knowledge that will enable me to succeed. As I serve vanilla non-fat lattes I’ll be able to tell the customers that establishments such as the ones they’re drinking coffee in are the heart of our capitalist economy, and a large contributer to the unequal division of international wealth. Oh, and "That’ll be $4.89."

I’ve been trying very hard lately NOT to waste money on the food at school because I’m a full time student I don't have a job. So to break this down for you: there’s a finite source of money and some goes out but nothing comes in. I try to pack a lunch, and save the extra $5 a day because I know I’d rather spend it on booze, I mean books. Universities however are pretty damn clever. They know that there are thrifty students out there, they even have entire clubs devoted to sustainability, so they find ways to counteract your lack of money spent on bubble tea. They put a market with every imaginable product right smack in the middle of campus so that you can't miss it, and you generally can'’t resist. I’d like to think that after writing several analytical papers, I could dissect the inner workings of this heroin-like market. The system works in a series of tiers. First tier is the shiny pretty jewelry tier. Girls fresh out of high school love the shiny pretty tier. Then comes the earth/naturel tier. They’ve got vintage jackets and clothing made out of soy, yeah I said soy, for all those people that have taken women’s studies and don't want to wear shiny pretty things that further subordinate women. Alright, there are more tiers but I got lazy and I think you understand my point; marketing geniuses were hard at work.

Today I sat down with my friend for lunch as she ate Subway and I ate my carefully packed sandwich from home. We talked about nothing in particular, blah blah blah- and then it happened. The straw that broke the fucking stressed out, anxiety ridden, has a final exam tomorrow camel’s back. A slip of the hand, a slight misjudgement, and I dropped my god damn sandwich. The nourishment that would sustain my “starving student” fisique, the substance to fill the empty void in my soul, my awesome sun-dried tomato chicken and organic baby lettuce sandwich. Time went into slow-motion as I watched my multi-grain bread flop onto the pigeon droppings that marked the tile floor; I stared in disbelief at the remnants scattered like garbage after a raccoon attack. Queue the thundering sound of my broken heart.

I think I lost a little piece of me when I saw that sandwich face down on the ground.

This is what university is; staring your lunch-deprived soul in the eyes, wiping the blood off your knees, and going to class a little bit hungry.

Friday Afternoon

Allan stared into his barren fridge, sifting through the bottles of mustard, bbq sauce, and all other imaginable condiments. Strange that a person would have copious amounts of condiments and nothing to put those condiments on; unless ofcourse you count a picked through bag of trailmix sans smarties. He looks frustrated, perturbed, as he pushes around a jar of salsa.

"I want something, like...uhh liquidy you know? Do you have any money?"

"Do you mean a DRINK al?"

"No baby, I said MMOOONNNNNEEEEYYYY!"