Re: A Letter.

That you sent me on Sunday. I read it as I dodged endless carts of Chinese vegetables that I can never pronounce the names of correctly. And my borrowed fake silk scarf fell from my tangled, slept-on mop of hair right into a puddle…so I made the knot tighter around my neck, and kept the pace, as I always do - but you know that already, don't you?

But if only you knew why I'm walking around like this at three o'clock p.m. on the nicest day of the year yet.

If only you knew about the morning of rain in bed, plain toast, phony constellation t-shirts from 1992.

If only you knew that it's not you.

I can't bring myself to send any of it back. I don't want to have to be the one to tell you. It's been over since the day I left, and I can't go back, can't go back, to the place I was before [insert guitar solo]. Your 14-point Arial words just shake in and out of focus, and from time to time I'll go back to them because I can't even remember what it is I've read. Not making me feel better. But not making me feel worse, either. You're right. It is a shame.

So I've made my bed. I'll lie in it.

yep.

Breathe in, breathe out, oh no you're drowning.

Say hello to a revolutionary device called the SmokeStik.

I discovered it this morning while checking my horoscope (which, by the way, has been uncannily dead on the mark as of the late) via this article in the Toronto Star, and am somewhat conflicted where it's concerned.

I totally, totally get the appeal, and am in fact even considering purchasing one for my mums and step dad; it's quite safe to say that I love them and would rather not have to see them with a trachea tube or whatever that thing's called that I remember turned me off television in a massive way when I was nine after seeing it in those terrifying Health Canada commercials.

Conversely, must the 21st century take the fun out absolutely everything? According to SmokeStik's distributors "it's like smoking with a condom on." Sounds really fucking attractive, no? A dude with a SmokeStik in a bar is certainly no James Dean, and I still want to find my James Dean goddammit. My point against the robot cigarette is pretty convoluted and most likely really, truly, severely misguided, but since all of two people read this blog and I know that they'll at least partially understand where I'm coming from, it is as follows:

I don't know whether or not ya'll have given our inevitable mortality any thought recently, but if I may, let me jog your memory using the grade-school 'hamburger essay' scheme...

1. Introduction: WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE ONE DAY.

2. Narration: Lots and lots and lots of people are smokers.

3. Affirmation: I enjoy smoking. Really, I do.

4. Negation: Secondhand smoke may or may not be harmful. No one knows for sure, regardless of what the crazy anti-smoking fascists might tell you. They do not actually know. Also: it's like smoking with a condom on. Need I say more?

5. Conclusion: We are still all going to die one day. I'm all about give and take...I'll gladly go to two hours of yoga and have a salad full of all of that Omega-3 and Vitamins A-through-Z bullshit, only to proceed to drink a half bottle of wine and chain-smoke throughout the rest of the evening. I enjoy both activities, and don't necessarily think that one cancels out the other. I do, however, think that I was put on this planet for a number of reasons, one of which is to enjoy myself.

Then again, I'm probably going to die all wrinkled and trachea-tubed when I'm, like, 30, so it's likely best to not take my advice.

n.b. I just read this back and realized I make virtually no sense whatsoever. Yeah, I'm an asshole, and one that will probably jump on the stupid robot cigarette bandwagon along with everyone else once this country's government allows it. Not for the death thing so much as the wrinkles...I admit it, I live in constant fear of the day I wake up to my first wrinkle.

scribbled notes from the desk of boredom, insecurity and indecisiveness.

You know you're fucked when you have twice as many draft posts in here as you do published. And not because they're incomplete.
Another sign would be when you continue to write "you", entirely subconsciously, when referencing yourself. And by 'yourself', I mean myself. Fuck. It's a hard habit to break.
Or when you laud a single Tuesday night at home without a drink as an accomplishment.
Also, when you tell everyone at work you're sick only to discover that you're actually sick, and just so out of touch with your own body that you're not sure what the difference between healthy and fucked is anymore.
Yep, you know you're fucked when.

P.S. Yes, I think I filled up my profanity quota in this post, thankyouverymuch.

Weeknights.

Recounting the drinks consumed, dancing shoes ruined, cab fares home after the separate ways we go. It's a daunting combination of lust, fear, loneliness and too many faces, too many pairs of eyes, too many numbers exchanged, unintelligible names.

Separate ways from our friends, and we all went home with someone in the end.

The laughing hours later about who was seen with who when and what word's been around town since then are so much easier than the long walk home and the carried over daylight from the night before.

But running through parking lots with a windswept umbrella and an empty stomach is harder without company. And once inside I'll listen to her count off the things she got for free. I'll do the same, because it's all just loss and gain. Vacant hearts too scared to be left alone, continuing to count off the minutes that we haven't been home.

We know we'll all go home with someone at some point again, but we lay in our thin-walled rooms tonight, unaware of tomorrow's enemies and friends.

I Think I'm In Love.

Nah, this post's title isn't a reference to a Spiritualized song (for once), it's about this goddamn Marni collection that is quite literally making my brain implode with awesomeness. It's wearable yet cerebral, playful and profesh, luxury for the slightly loopy at its absolute best. I thought I was 'over' fashion, what with having recently disbanded Thee Fashion Blog That Shall Not Be Named, but Consuelo Castiglioni has quickly changed my mind on the matter and deftly weaseled the love for colour, proportion and sky-high platform shoes back into my cold, black, 5-outfit-redundant heart as of late.

The woman of the venerable Italian house's Fall 2009 Ready-to-Wear collection is, in my mind, the lovechild of Margot Tenenbaum (kohl-eyed, scrawny-armed former prodigy with a depressive streak from Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums) and Howard Roark (sexy power-tripping genius architect from Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead). Marni's marriage of Roark's egomaniacal intelligence and Margot's fabulously eccentric heiress shtick basically renders me speechless, and wanting nothing more than to be this Roark-Margot hybrid with a wardrobe filled with nothing but the following outfits...in my brilliant skyscraper penthouse, of course.

This one below would be for lazy Sunday shopping; I would totally pick up a box of chai tea, a brick of Camembert, some graphing pencils and a carton of Marlboro Reds in this splendid mish-mash of an outfit. I've no doubt my Cantonese convenience store clerk would be a fan of the jaunty hat.

I would wear this next one when taking public transit. Because even though my father is a massively loaded architect and my mom is a playwright heiress mess, I still like to keep it real and tell my driver to fuck off every once in a while. The massive workman gloves seem awfully functional re: poor people germs, as does the breastplate-like beaded vest thing (seriously though, what would you call that thing?) But I digress.

A navy blue fur coat is obviously one of the most badass articles of clothing one could possess, and as such this ensemble would naturally adorn me while conducting my daily badass activities, whatever those may be.

The cape hearkens back to a time when men were chivalrous and women were ladylike and people actually gave a shit about what they looked like before they walked out the front door in the morning; in sloppy modernity, however, the cape-wearing individual has, by and large, been relegated to something of a crazy person. But no matter, because this is exactly what I would want to be wearing while taking a stroll down Fifth Avenue with my pet pig on my way to hot yoga.

The jacquard overcoat, printed knees socks and outrageously high open-toed wedge sandals are obviously perfect for attending my Thursday afternoon Sartrean Existentialism class at NYU, and having coffee and a heated debate about the true beneficiary in Wagner and Nietzsche's friendship with my dashing T.A. on a nearby park bench afterwards. Obviously.

The perfect party dress for when my attendance is required at yet another dreadfully boring Saturday evening gala. The jeweled bib-front is questionable/quirky enough to pique the curiosity of the more conservative individuals in my socio-economic strata, but inoffensive/expensive enough to keep their comments at bay. Also, it's sexy without being restrictive in such a way that would make climbing into the town car difficult after a few too many bottles of champers, the importance of which is not to be minimized.

03/02/2009 part 2

Two and a half years of having my soul crushed daily, and its still there. And if that's youth and foolishness then I'll take dumb drunken nights for the rest of my life. I breathe and I think and do the rest of them too? Godless and I swear you are.

03/02/2009

We had some good times together.
Some really, really bad ones too.
I'm so happy to be out, even at my lowest of lows. It's how I know what I did was right. And my god, the times I've had since then! Cab rides and 7-1¹pit stops with someone I don't even like on my arm, late nights on Sundays with looming dawn and talk of scary pasts, phones being stolen right out of my hand for number entry that neither will call, but same-room texting has been great for now. And oh! The morning with the view of the scummy city lake and cheeseburgers and BMW Bob Dylan singalongs. My brain works in an absolutely gorgeous way sometimes. Brains. Firing off neurons and hard-ons and cheap dirty thrills with desk jobs that pay the bills to wake up to. Alarm clocks to be set and helpless loves to pay their rent. Money loans, interest rates, heart attacks, open windows. The calm only seems to come with substances these days and walks outside for cigarettes aren't enough to wake me up. Pull the covers up again, again.