Skinny jean Dreams Do come True... in Record Format....

Have you ever seen a pair of jeans that you just MUST have? They are so cute, so soft, so cheap, so perfect except for one thing: they don't quite fit, YET. As soon as I start getting back into my gym schedule again, they will fit, you rationalize. The next three months will be a no potato chips zone you promise. So you go ahead, all in all it is a good deal. These jeans won't be on sale when you actually fit them. So you're saving yourself money in the long run, right?

It all sounds perfectly rational EXCEPT when you get home and realize you have a whole closet of "One-Day" clothes. Every morning when you look over your wardrobe of clothes not yet ready for public consumption you sink lower and lower into a hole of depravity and the first thing you want to do is reach for a bag of Old Dutch Ketchup chips.

So instead of faltering into a sea of ketchup-stained excess you hide those "one-Day" clothes away so you are not confronted with everything you are Not every time you open the wardrobe in the morning. Every once in a while when you are looking for a screwdriver or you randomly get an urge to polish furniture they pop out of their hiding place. The red pumps that are one and a half sizes to small but still so cute!!! The hot pink jeans that will make you look like a high-class Fergie when you can finally manage to get the last button done up.

Usually this type of shopping is a bit like throwing money into a black hole, but on the rare occasions that it actually works out, you feel like the frog prince. You get a surprise bunch of new clothes that you didn't ask for or remember for free. What could be better.

I started taking the same One Day approach to records when I was about 14 years old and saw a DJ spinning for the first time. He was everything I was not at the time: cool, calm, hot, mysterious. But "One Day," I would be. And it all started with records. I remember going into Boom Town Records as a bored teenager and giggling with my pubescent friends over who was the hottest cashier. We pool our money and spend hours pouring over records and sometimes even bravely asking for some help. The tiny fact that I didn't have a record player, didn't mean much at the time. The covers were cool and "One Day" I would have one, and it would be awesome!

I was often scoffed for my predilection towards vinyl. I may not have had a player yet but I still knew a deal when I saw when and I knew a classic album when I saw it in a sale bin for $0.99.
Finally, this Christmas after 13 years of scouring record bins and scooping up free records off dirty sidewalks, my skinny jean dreams of a record player have come true. And it is glorious.

Yesterday I listened to the Dirty Dancing Soundtrack like three times. And then I played a little RedMan and then two Happy Days Albums. Sure I had to keep turning the record over a\every thirty minutes or so and some times the music sounds like it is two chipmunks singing on speed but it's definitely worth it.

My One Day dreams of a record player are now a reality. Now about those skinny jeans.......

Comes in Flashes.....

So for the past few years, I have been researching crazy people. You know reading books on crazy people, looking up crazy people symptoms on the Internet, watching TV shows about crazy people; sometimes I even go to this one coffee shop on Pandora and Government and people-watch because it's where a lot of street people and other medicated types work and congregate.
There's one common thread: it comes in flashes. Sometimes you are crazy and sometimes you are not. Sometimes you feel happy sometimes you feel sad and sometimes you feel nothing. That is when you should start to worry.
Most people who know me would say, that I often feel both very sad and very happy. I mean I cry at soap operas and I cry at concerts and I cry at long distance commercials and you-tube videos. It's been that way for a while.
Those same people and most aquaintances would say that I often seem happy. I am quiet, sure not I also smile and laugh a lot. It's ying and yang, baby.
But lately I have been waking up feeling so empty. For a while I thought I was hungry but I soon began to realize even potatoe chips didn't satiate the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I would watch a couple of hours of TV and have no idea what I had just watched; or read a magazine cover to cover and not be able to recall what a single article was about.
I feel a bit antsy and out of sorts; like I am watching myself but not really in my body. Not exactly a call for alarm yet. But it is sure unnerving.

Do You think of Me?

Do you think of me once in a while?
When you are sad or feeling blue?
Do I remind you of things that make you smile or even laugh out loud?
Like when you step outside to get the paper and you get a bit of dew between your toes
Or when you eat cookies in bed and read girly magazines?
When you think of me once in a while?
Is it good or is it bad?
Is for just a second or maybe a bit longer?
Do you want to talk or just leave well enough alone?
When you think of me once in a while do you think of what I did wrong or what I did right?
Do you think about how I might look now or how I looked then?
When you think of me once in a while, Do you wonder about my family, my friends, my health, or my happiness?
When you walk down the street do you sometimes think you see me and then try to catch my eye?
Do you think of me?
When you hear a new song or watch a new movie do you wonder what I would think?
Do you ever think of me?

Five-Day Old Pizza and Maxi Pads.....The Long Anticipated Conclusion....

I'd seen Greg's filthy basement suite a few times before, so I'm not sure how my overly-dramatic pubescent head morphed the smell of dirty laundry and half-eaten food into the mirage of vanilla-scented candles and freshly laundered linens; but so goes the mind of a girl who for years well past her teen cursed herself for not sending a b-cup bra to Luke Perry for him to autograph instead of her real Warner's A-cup sports bra.

But even in hindsight, the suite was messier than I'd ever seen. I guess the honeymoon was officially over. There was no more hiding stuff in closets or behind the couch, this was Greg; this was Greg's filth: love it or lump it.

So I loved it. I loved it with all I had. I just closed my eyes and tried to remember the lines from every schmaltzy first-time teen love scene I could remember. Downing that half bottle of jack really helped me get into character. We weren't two rebel without a cause teens in a condemned basement tryin to fumble our way through baseball metaphors; we were Brenda and Dylan at the Bellagio on Prom Night; we were Diane Court and Lloyd Dobler in the back of the car after graduation. We were anyone we could think of to be except ourselves.

Because we were embarrassing. There was hapless clothes pulling; there was awkward shifting and accidental hair-pulling; there was outright shock and full-on staring; and most unexpectedly there was a surprise visit from my Aunt Flo that was not only unexpected but unknown until after the fact.

The look of horror on Greg's face is something that haunted me for years to come. Any delusions of his cool exterior and sexual experience fizzled into nothingness as I tried to explain that sometimes "Aunt Flo" came unexpectedly and I swore up and down and even looked up for him on the Internet that he was not going to 'catch anything' from me.

I guess the copious amounts of drugs and alcohol consumed that night did nothing to ease the tension of the awful conclusion to our soap opera rendevous. There was no closing our eyes and pretending anymore. I thought I was going to literally pass out from embarrassment. I seriously was periodically checking my pulse and putting my head out the window for some air. Greg was so red. Not just red in the face; his whole body was red with embarrassment.

Everything was way too real. There was blood: on the bed; on my clothes; on him. Then I started to notice other cracks in the facade. There was a moldy pan with what seemed to be old mac and cheese next to the night stand. there were about three empty pizza boxes at the foot of the bed. There were fruit flies buzzing around a heap of dirty laundry.

While Greg was in the shower "decontaminating himself," I was becoming more and more aware that I was not in the penthouse suite of the Bellagio or even the comfortable back seat of a car. I was in a pig sty and I was starting to feel itchy and nauseous. I suddenly started to notice three tiny pink marks on my thigh. I scratched them and they almost instantly turned into red protruding welts. I couldn't take it.

I called my dad and asked him to pick me up. When Greg got out of the shower he was a bit less disgusted with me but still none too pleased that I had somehow become "allergic" to his place.
"you've been here before, and never had anything like this happen!," he grumbled, still stumbling from the booze and the atrosity that we had both participated in." Well his place had never been this disgusting I thought. And I'd never spent more than twenty minutes at his place before. And I'd certainly never done anything like whatever we had just done at his place before.

He didn't put up much of a fight. We both wanted the night to be over. Neither of us could look the other in the eye. Greg locked up the basement and decided to spend the night on his parents' couch. He left in such a hurry but I was too relieved to see him go to care.

No hug, no kiss not even a wave goodbye; just a random nod in my direction. But I certainly wanted no bodily contact with him at that moment. I didn't think I wanted any bodily contact with anyone ever again.

Five-Day Old Pizza and Maxi Pads.....PART 2.....

Some people describe first love as euphoric and all-encompassing: an exhilarating magic carpet ride that takes you to all the most beautiful places in the world. I would say, not so much. First love is full of missteps and awkward moments intermitten with gooey feelings of attachment and overall horniess. But I wouldn't say I'm a pessimist; more a realist. Let's face it 98 per cent of first loves last a good 6 months longer than they should due to a contagious attachment disease, I like to call Awkward-repetition-avoidance-itis.

I mean, who hasn't comtemplated overlooking the ocassional sexual daliance due to the fact that a) you don't want to go through the whole body positions/body image/bodily functions comfort dance with another new guy; or b) you don't think you will ever be able to afford an apartment as nice as the one you two share, on your own.

But sometimes awkwardness comes upon a hill called horrific embarrassment. For most people, their innate awkwardness would give way to control and thus, they would be able to avoid horrific embarrassment. But when first love awkwardness is coupled with habitual cocaine usage and unbearable PMS cramps, you get a case of horrific embarrassment, or as I like to call it, the tale of Five Day old Pizza and Maxi Pads.......

There was something about Greg that screamed bad boy with a heart of gold. He still had his learner's license when he first met, but he had blacked out some of the letters on his "student driver" sign so it said, instead,"Stunt Driver." Very cool, that was Greg. Very loud, very forward, very abrupt; but very, very cool. He didn't have many friends, which seemed appropriate. Not everyone was in on this secret: Greg was very, very cool.

Greg was the perfect antidote to everything that ailed me. I was mischevious and ready to rebel against anything and everything in my path. I had spent too many summers looking for the perfect Dylan MacKay to match wits with my improbable Brenda Walsh. My own personal Luke Spencer to sweep me off my feet and carry me away from my abismal existence as a wallflowerish Laura Webber. That was one problem straight off the bat. We both watched far too much TV to understand what a real relationship with drugs and curfews and naked bodies and unreturned phone calls would be like.

There was nothing Greg could do that wasn't absolutely perfect. Sometimes I would break a date with him and not return his phone calls just so I could make him mad and hear him scream to me how much he loved me. He loved me a lot. He would scream it from rooftops; outside my house when I was grounded; on the family answering machine so everyone in my family could hear it.

He loved me so much that when I finally got the courage to admit to him that I could not sleep over that night because I had a visit from"Aunt Flo," he was actually relieved. At least I was not falling out of love with him; or worse falling in love with someone else. Besides, it's all part of Mother Nature's plan, right?

So despite my better judgement, and with a lack of understanding what a night at Greg's place would really entail, I preceded to prepare for a sleepover. I left my house that night with stars in my eyes and dreams of a magical night filled with candles and soft music and rose petals. When I returned less than 24 hours later, there were no more delusions of grandeur in my head. Just the all-emcompassing fear that if Greg ever broke up with me I might have to relive that horrific embarrassment all over again with someone new.........

Five-Day Old Pizza and Maxi Pads.....PART 1.....

You know how the plucky heroine always seems gets herself into some cringe-worthy jam and then she has to comeclean and get a bit embarrassed but it doesn't even matter because everyone always ends up liking her more for her honesty?

Why is it never like that in real life? How come dumb Baby can tell hot Patrick Swazye she "carried a watermelon" and STILL end up with the guy and everyone rooting for her? How come the Shopoholic can fully plan and pay for two lavish weddings in separate countries and then is just given a playful shove when she admits to her financier fiance that she just wasted like$50,000 and 100 of hours of time planning impractical weddings?

Real Diasters are never that cute and are never resolved tidily. Real disasters involve PAIN, HUMILIATION, and LIFE-THREATENING EMBARASSMENT.

Real disasters involve missteps and drunken decisions and flared tempers and, sometimes, sometimes, if you are really and truly unlucky in love and life, sometimes they involve five-day old pizza and maxi pads....

Hello, LOVER.......

You are my new favorite. Forget all the others. They never meant anything to me compared to you. You are sleek and small and fast and everything anyone could want. So you're not hot pink. That's okay. Silver is just as nice and prolly a little more grown-up.


Which is prolly something I should try to be. Grown up. Not blowing my paycheque on my lunch hour and buying toys.

But WHATEVER!!! you are sooo hot!

Music is like sooooo....totally awesome!

Sometimes I forget how much music means to mean. Like I am not a musician by any standards although I can throw down a little Stevie Nicks on Karaoke like nobody's business; and I can create a killer playlist or Mix CD and dance like a mofo; but I'm not like aspiring to be in the music business by any means. So why does it stir so many feelings inside of me? How can certain songs get me more amped or more depressed that real situations in life?

This morning I was super tired but just couldn't fall asleep, so I just sat in my big cozy bed and listened to music. Just sat and listened. for hours. It was great. And when I tried to explain to someone how relaxing and euphoric it was, he just didn't get it. On Friday we went to an intimate concert although he said he enjoyed it, i get the feeling.....eh....not so much.

For me music is an unparalleled connection. It's not my livelihood but I definitely could not live without it. At my last job, I used to listen to it so quietly that it was almost like listening to poetic whispering all day long. It helps me concentrate, helps me relax, makes me happy and makesme sad.

It all sounds so trite. I mean there are a million people out there who are all like "Music is my Life, man!" and I would probably laugh and roll my eyes at them with the rest of the too-cool musical elite, but it's true.

It's great to be able to create anything and all art is subjective but music is something bigger than a beauutiful painting or a well-written novel or a superbly-acted movie: music unites people more than any other medium. Look at concerts like Live Aid or Live Earth, charity painting, books or plays rarely succeed as well as charity concerts.

That's not to say there aren't millions of problems with music today, particularly mainstream pop drivel, radio airplay and the music industry as a whole: but at the heart of it, in it's purest, genenist state, music is about connection and relating to universal experiences, and sometimes that is the greatest thing to do on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

High School Musical: Too Old for This Edition

So, okay, I'll admit it. Sometimes I slip back into the drunk drama and drunk dialing chapter of my life that really should have been put to bed when I was like 21.
It's a hrad habit to break. Especially when a relationship is new, and plans are being made and flirting is happening and drinks are flowing and text messaging and answering machines are sitting there waiting for you to record your embarassment at the beep.
It's not really a habit that has caused me too much grief. Yes it's embarassing. But so are a lot of things that happen. So be it.
Until now. I am hereby putting a moritorium on drunk dialing the "new guy" until like at least 3 months in, if we even last that long. Let's just say he was a little unimpressed and asked me like 4 times how old i really was. And hasn't returned my phone calls. And said that he doesn't like banana bread. And didn't come over last night.
Damn you raspberry-flavoured vodka and easy to use when I'm drunk, cell phone!
DAMN YOU!

We're All Misunderstood......

Let me preface this entry with, I know. I know I think too much about random things that most people just gloss over. So be it.

Working at a university, you get a real sense of searching. Everyone is looking for that chance, that opportunity to define themselves or to meet that person that makes everything all of a sudden make sense.

Well, I posit that nothing ever makes sense completely. As much as we all look for something to join , someone to connect with we are all ultimately alon ein our feelings and no one will completely understand them ever; probably not even you.

Take for example when something happens to you and someone else. Something that connects you forever and binds you together over a shared, intimate experience. Even though you feel close and feel connected you are not really. YOur feeling are yours alone and no matter how eloquent or how chatty you may be you will never be able to fully comvey everything you mean to anyone.

Every truth you share is filtered by the listeners' experiences and the listeners' preconceived notions on what you should be sharing.

Have you ever been in that situation where you feel like you are saying you want somespace and the listener hears that you want to move in together?

Truth is a relative term and something that can never be fully shared.

OMG! H&M!

Sometimes you get into this zone, right? Where you are like this carniverous beast that can not Satiate its hunger. Like you just want more and more and more. You devour everything in site. Everything you see looks good enough to eat: that coffee in your neighbour's hand; that shriveled apple that has been on the kitchen counter for weeks; that small child running aimlessly dressed up like a big poofy ball of cotton candy.
That's how I felt at H&M on Saturday: except I wasn't hungry for food, I was hungry for jeans, shoes, bags, sweaters, tees and tanks. All weekend I would see someone walking down the street and i would think I wonder where they bought that shirt? I wonder if they have shoes like that at H&M? I wonder if she would sell me her bag if I gave her $20 cash?
I still feel it. I want more. I want everything in two colours and all variations. I thought I would feel a bit glutonous after the mega spree but I don't.
Well, I did for a bit on Sunday but then I went to the Art Gallery and diluted myself into believing I am really not that superficial if I can spend 3 hours in an Art Gallery on a perfectly shop-worthy day.
I still want more. I want to go back again, and again and again.
Maybe it's a good thing there is no H&M here, yet. I need to bring myself back down from this high. I need to curb my appetite for clothes before I end up furtehr into the poorhouse.
And i will.

Starting tomorrow. Right now, eBay and shopkitson.com are calling me!

I don't sleep... I dream......

can you believe I've only been there once? From the way I talk about it, and think about it and read about it , i feel like I should have been there like 100 times. But no. Only once. One magical time in Montreal where I was reborn and re-affirmed my love of consumerism and mass marketing. If i've said it once, I've said it 100 times.. H&M Rules!!!


And on Saturday, I will go there again. All the way in coquitlam certainly not as exotic as Montreal or NYC but at least the travel expense is cheaper. Now I am getting kind of worried that I've blown it up in my mind. Maybe H&M won't be as great as I've imagined in my head. Sure we had one perfect day together but can lightning really strike twice?

And will there really be any clothes left? IN Edmonton, they had to close early when the H&M opened because there was literally no more stock on the first day! Can you imagine?

I mean I haven't traveled anywhere this summer and i've had a lot of stress so I feel like going to H&M and when I went to the Virgina Music Festival in May will end up being my summer highlights! Oh, and my Friend's wedding too. But I really hope H&M lives up my lofty expectations.

Two friends have recently returned from H&M trips abroad and have returned with enviable loads of cute stuff spending like $500 or $1000, in one sitting. Will my H&M Coquitlam experience be able to compete?

Only time will tell......

When you Don't care it happens.....

Isn't weird how life works? Whoeever created the adage "Practise makes Perfect" was sure off base. I find I do better when I don't care. When I am just going through the motions. Like an interview that was casually shrugged off as a 'practise' one or the boy on the side who is just 'warming your bed'; or the random hook-up during which you were preoccupied by what was going to happen on the next O.C. re-run that you barely realized that the Big O was on its way.

Here's to Apathy!!!

R.I.P. Kurt Cobain, your short life has kept me from becoming a major stress case.

Better the Second Time Around

You know what's weird? One of my biggest pet peeves is people who repeat themselves. I hate it and usually zone out. But some repeats I like. I like eating things again and again (potatoe chips anyone?, bacon sandwiches for the entire grade 3 school year anyone? or what about mike's hard lemonade). I Like watching teen reality tv shows over and over again to pick up the subtle thems and moments of film noir and comedy dellarte that would otherwise be glossed over in the exuberance of the whole "DAMN... Oh no she didn't" mentality.

But what I like more than any of that, what I like more than staring at myself in the mirror and eating potatoe chips and watching teen tv shows combined, is finding out what people who I have lost touch with are doing. Is that like repating myself? I feel like it is. Because that person is out of my life, and I for sure don't want him back in my life, but i swear i spend about an hour a day wondering and internet searching and casual name-dropping to mutual aquaintenances to find the dirt.

I guess it's not so much repeating myself as being like a voyeur. A cyber voyeur, if you will. And it can become all-consuming.
You see recently I got a hold of some photos of an old flame completely by chance. And not I am constantly salivating and scouring the Net trying to find more dirt and emailing and messaging mutual aquaintenances. Now one reason, is of course, because on paper my life sounds so much better than his.

Not married, okay fine, i'll give you that one. But I do have my own place that is cool and not a dump. I do have cute hair (that needs a little work, but on the whole it's looking cute when I put the effort in). I have this whole I'm a writer working on my first teen novel thing going.... It's really working for me!!

So now in a effort to combat my PerezHilton addiction, I've taken to scouring the World Wide Web to find my long lost companions and decide for myself if they are better or worse than when we were together. Is that terrible? I kind of think it is!! But that's the beauty of being a cyber voyeur.... No one knows you are watching them.....

How long is too long?

Time is tricky. Sometimes you call someone and you have nothing to say. But you call because you love them and it's time to call. Sometimes you call someone and you can't even get into it; you have too much to say: it's been too long. That person is no longer privy to all the fun little anecdotes you flavour all your relationships with. It takes too much effort. The petty small talk that must happen before you get to all the juicy bits. The what'd you do last nights and the what'd you have for lunches that you must endure before you can make the announcements and start all the fun girly laughing and dissecting that makes conversations so fun.

Sometimes I wish i could just leave messages and set the scene and let the information be heard and we could laugh and gossip in our time about what had transpired. Or that I didn't have to say hello and how are you before I get to hear the latest gossip or spread the news I'm bursting to deliver.

Politeness is so overrated. Already the telephone plays second fiddle to email when it comes to making plans. Now I've started to receive (and I'll admit I begrudgingly partake in this activity sometimes as well, It is so DAMN convenient!) in the thinking of you e-cards and sweet I miss you text messages. If you were really thinking of someone, wouldn't you set aside time to go see them or at least call them.

Imagine if someone came and knocked at your door just to say they were thinking of you and wanted to see what was up. That would be weird. It's nice, I guess, but for the most part annoying and weird and awkward. Then you would have to let them in, feed them, excetra excetra.

Sometimes, I wish, I could just let people read my brain. Not all the time, mind you, I think that would be really uncomfortable for my hairdresser and other randoms, friends and family members that I come in contact with on a daily basis. But just sometimes, when you wanted them to. So you wouldn't just be saying I'm thinking of you, you would actually be doing it and have proof!!!

That would be cool.

DEBT!

okay, so may be this whole self-employed thing isn't really going as well as I expected at first. In my head, I imagined it all coffee shops and meetings and quality lap top time. In reality it is a lot of drinking dirty tap water and religiously reading perez hilton until 3 pm when I watch Amanada Bynes in What I Like About You.
Not really a bad life, really, except for one thing. I have no money! And I keep spending money I don't have. And I don't want to stop. And I won't! So what can I do? I guess I willhave to bite the bullet and get a real job. It was a great dream while it lasted!

TV ate my brain and I loved it.........

You know how sometimes people try to act snobby like they are too important or have other cooler things to do than watch TV? I hate that. I could do things too, but I know they won't be as cheap or as interesting as watching TV. In fact, one of my favourite things to do these days is create watching TV drinking games.

Below are some current faves:

Drink everytime you see a commercial for MTV or MuchMusic on a different TV station.
Drink everytime Chad Michael Murray looks sad on the inside on One Tree Hill
Drink everytime any Ben Mulroney or Billy Bus or Ryan Seacrest -type pops up on the screen.
Drink everytime Lauren starts whining on The Hills.
Drink everytime someone cries on the Real World LoS Vegas Reunited
Drink Everytime I forget what's happening when we're watching some complicated CSI or Law & Order -type show.
Drink everytime we flip to MuchMusic and there isn't a music video playing.

Posh Spice rulz

So I've always had a passing curiousity with the Beckhams. They sure sound interesting what with their hired present-openeer at Christmas-time and their $1 million birthday party for Brooklyn's first birthday and the sanskirt tattoo that was supposed to be devotion and love but means like Menu Number 6 for Korean Take-out or something.
They sure seem to do some interesting stuff. But now that they've moved to La-La Land, it's on.
They are so hot and so fab and so funny all rolled into one. You know when someone is so everything that is over-hyped and exaggerated about the world but they embrace is so fully and so unabashedly that you somehow end up secretly worshipping them?
That's the Beckhams.

You'll never see Posh complaining about a lack of privacy ( excpet when the flashbulbs give her son Romeo seizures, which is a whole other tragedy, we need to discuss at a later date). You'll rarely see her smile or eat. And she knows it. She goes for it. And she's secretly laughing right along with us.

Plus she gets to sleep with the hotest guy on the planet. I don't care if his voice sounds like he has been inhaling helium since childhood. He is so pretty.

So bring on Beckham-mania. We're ready for it.




If you missed Posh Spice Coming to America on NBC, you are sadly out of luck. Pure Genius! Here's a clip from Youtube:

To Write is to Live.....

In ninth grade creative writing class, I developed a somewhat unhealthy obsession with melo-drama that I never really got over. I think the instigator might have been the summer of the soaps when I seriously watched All My Children, One Life to Live and General Hospital everyday for two months straight. I was convinced that something life-shattering was going to happen to me just like when Karen Wexler became addicted to pills and a stripper at Sonny's club; or when Marty was gang-banged by a group of drunken frat boys (except Kevin, who felt bad about it and I think later, ended up dating Marty for a while). And instead of being afraid or even worried about what impending travails were ahead of me. I daydreamed about it. I wrote long-winded over-wrought short stories about it.

Everyone has their share of bad teenage angst poetry but how many of us can lay claim to melo-dramatic 'Fear Street' rip-off short stories always staring themselves as the victim/protagonist who repeatedly dies at the end of the 500-word soapy narrative?

My writing teacher started to get a bit concerned. He was also the school guidance counsellor. So he asked me about them and with a little prodding I conceded that my hum-drum life was far too basic and pedestrian for anyone to take interest in. That's when the hippie teacher dropped some of his hard-earned knowledge.

"To write is to live," he said. "And when you have a writer's soul, and believe me, you do, you won't have to sit down and write, one day it will all come out of you uncontrollably."

That has stuck with me longer than anything else I have ever learned. Now I think my naive writing teacher might have underestimated my powers of procrastination and the depths of apathy that lie beneath my cheery exterior, but his message remains the mantra that i whisper to myself when I feel down about my lack of productivity. Through the clouds and beneath the muddy confines of my befuddled mind, there is a Governor General's award waiting to happen. I just have to look for it.... tomorrow.

Shopaholic-ism

Okay, so I have a little problem, with restraint. I don't have it. Patience? Not much! I can't even walk through a lame decrepit mall without succumbing to whimsy and shelling out a couple Ben Franklins ( well, not ben franklins, obviously, but I can't think of who is on the $20 bill? Is it the Queen? Shelling out a couple Queen Elizabeths doesn't really roll off the tongue... But who's that guy on the $5 bill? Alfred Laurier? Shelling out a couple Lauriers could work. I'll work on it)

Anyways, back to my problem. So I had this $60 gift certificate for Sears. ( actually it was my dad's from his retirement party but my mom gave it to me). I thought perfect. I can satisfy my craving and not anilate my pocketbook. I mean it's Sear's, not like I'm going to find much I want from there, right? But of course, it happens to be sidewalk sale time at Sear's and I end up spending like $80 on bras and underwear ( which I really needed, anyways) when I wanted to spend like $30 and spend $30 on actually buying my dad something with his own gift certificate.

Then I went to this random bedding store and spent like another $30 on a crocheted blanket and a silk duvet cover. Then I went to the Body Shop and they had all these essential oils priced all funny where I only really wanted one but I had to buy 3 to get a deal. So I did. Then I wanted some mositurizer and you had to buy two to get a deal. So I did. Then I went to Zellers and bought a shelf. And a chocolate bar because I felt depressed because I had spent so much money.

Plus now I can't stop thinking about these cute brown and pink shell-toed Adidas sneaks I saw at Champs. And these edgy boots and pink peep toe kitten heels at Payless.

This disease will be the end of me!

Music makes the people come together!!

Yesterday I bought four CDs!! I haven't done that in so long! I am glad I can download music but there is nothinglike buying a dope CD, and ripping it open and reading the little booklet and listening to the whole thing and learning the names of the songs you love.


The Beastie Boys: The Mix-up

I will buy Beastie Boys Cds until the day I die. Now maybe that makes me seem like a dude or like I am sort of pedophile trying to pick up 10-year old skateboarders in Esquimalt, but whatevs. I love the Beasties and they seem to get no love these days. This is an instrumental CD and I have never bought an instrumental CD before. But it is not mellow or Yanni-ish or anything. It is crazy and fast and fun. In fact, it makes me want to kick a few freestyles myself, grade 10 style coming at'cha. Look out for it, yo!
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Interpol- Our Love to Admire

Okay, so I may be a little late on the Interpol love-train. But whatevs. My defense is two-fold: I barely started downloading music like just a couple years ago; and I am easily distracted by flashy teenager singers (Damn you Jesse McCartney and Hilary Duff!) But I'm fully abroad now and I think this is the perfect time. This CD is moody and mad and sad and heavy and keyboard-tastic ( is that complete sacriledge to say heavy and keyboard-tastic in the same sentence?) Whatevs. I love this CD and am excited to see them live asap! Paul Banks is a GOD!

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Classified - Hitch Hiking Music

What! Classified is my favourite Canadian rapper. In fact, he is battling for top 3 living rappers in my book ( with Jay-Z and Eminem, fyi). He is like the Jack Johnson of hip hop. Laid back and sweet, but he's a a lot less sleep-inducing than your boyfriend Jack Johnson(sorry). His beats are as good as anything out of NYC and while he does have a tendency to rap about how broke he is as opposedto how he'll beat you at dungeons and dragons (move on swollen members, it's not ironic anymore!); he does it without sounding pissed at the world like most backpack rappers. His songs are so club-worthy, it's ridiculous, but he gets no love in the clubs out here. No Fair. Classified is wicked and I bet you he will blow up.... soon!

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You Say Party! We Say Die! -Lose All Time

Shout out ABBOTSFORD! YSP!WSD! are fun and danceable and moody and edgy all at the same time. They bring it all with electro-pop goodness and moody lyrics. You know those parties where you start out looking so hot and then everything turns out messy and you like lose a shoe and rip you nylons and your hair gets all frizzy but then when you see the photos, you realize that it looks super hot and edgy like smeared red lipstick and smudged mascara? That's the appeal of YSP!WSD!

Class dismissed:)