Tuesday, June 30, 2009

A girl after my own heart.

I am by no means a thrower-around of the word soulmate, as it is one of the few words within the English language that I feel some sort of reverence towards.

That being said, I have most certainly found one such soulmate in the form of Miss Alexi Wasser of imboycrazy.com.

Although my lovably daft lesbian roommate continues to propose that I "just haven't met the right girl yet", I'm quite certain that I'm a certifiable, 100%, card-carrying H-E-T-E-R-O, and quite possibly the only one left in this city. Yes, that would be Toronto, the city in which seemingly everyone has pulled a Katy Perry (lame and over-used reference, but whatevs) and sucked face and/or other parts with a fellow female at some point or another. I'm a big fan of the 'to each their own' adage, but I simply like dudes way too much to ever even consider branching out.

If I were, however, to hypothetically switch teams, this chick would be my Numero Uno crush. She's hilarious and wise and basically me, albeit a little more confident, street smart and put together...alright, maybe a lot more of all of the aforementioned, but are you really keeping score?

I'm all too well aware that everyone and their dog's got a blog these days, but this one is actually unmissable if you're a chick who likes dudes, a dude who needs to learn how to be better at being a dude (read here, please and thank you), or just looking for a back-up plan.

What I've failed to mention is that she would likely hate me as I am a filthy smoker. But hey, you can't win 'em all.

24 and there's so much more.

Turning 24 this past Saturday was challenging and eye-opening to say the least.

Aside from 'the problems', I've virtually always considered birthdays to be more depressing than celebratory. I don't care much for the notion of a day on which all of the attention is focused on me, and instead the day on which I was born tends to bring a sense of my own mortality much closer to the forefront of my mind than it generally is...which is saying a lot, as I'm often fixated with it to begin with.

24 has always struck me as the age at which I'm meant to really, actually, truly, wholeheartedly grow up. Which, in essence, means setting the vast majority of my neuroses aside once and for all and becoming that confident, strong, take-no-prisoners kind of woman I've aspired to be for as long as I can remember. 24 is, in my mind, when I'm supposed to legitimately become a 'woman' for that matter (I don't know about you, but I certainly haven't considered myself to be one yet - Girl, maybe? Chick, definitely. Woman...yeah, not a chance).

When I awoke on the 27th of June I begun weaving this tangled mess inside my own head, effectively psyching myself out before the day had even brought me to my feet. Typical me.

But the universe often has a funny way of reminding us of those things we've forgotten, those conversations, images and thoughts which have been stored in the deep recesses of some convoluted memory bank, just waiting for the time and place at which it somehow knew there would be relevance to the seemingly irrelevant, all of which didn't strike you as at all worthwhile at the time.

Flipping through an old issue of Harper's Bazaar I noticed two images, both of which I'd discussed with my mother while we were getting pedicures a few months ago. They are as follows:

Daisy Lowe, in a [fantastic] Meisel editorial. Gwyneth Paltrow, in a Tod's advert.

There was little debate between us as to the physical attractiveness of either, as they're both, quite obviously, beautiful (in these specific photos at the very least). And so the topic of our argument was not who looked better, but rather concerned a certain taste level.

My generally adversarial nature aside, I ascertained that it was, in fact, Daisy who looked cooler, better, more awesome and so on and so forth. My mother, naturally, proposed the opposite. "What's so uncool about having clean hair and nice skin and not looking strung-out?" she asked me, to which I of course responded with "it's boring" or something equally dumb-sounding and ignorant. We continued to prattle on and on about this until the people scrubbing our feet were surely dead bored with listening to us, our polish had dried and we sauntered out of the salon - me slightly more defensive and pissed off, and her slightly more concerned about my general aspirations in life.

This was, of course, all swept under the rug by the time we reached the nearest Starbucks...god, I must sound like an insufferable yuppie right now, what with all this talk of pedicures and Starbucks....but I digress. On the morning of June 27th I came across these images again, and perhaps for the first time ever, I saw what my mother had seen.

At 24 years old I finally want to start being good to myself.

It's not that I have to grow up, it's that I actually, legitimately, whole-fucking-heartedly want to. I don't want to be a nail-biter, I don't want to have dark circles around my eyes, I don't want to eat shit food and then starve myself for a week, I don't want legs that are pale and bruised, I don't want to play silly games with dudes that I know are all wrong for me but go out with anyways. I don't want to, I don't want to, I DO NOT want this.

Starving artists are so goddamn romanticized, and at last I really do see that there's nothing romantic about it. I can safely state that, from my experience of being one and knowing many, it doesn't produce better art. It does, however, succeed in making you miserable and perpetually dissatisfied. And ugly. And, chances are, age rapidly (and I am nothing if not admittedly vain). It also grants you a free pass to make terribly bad decisions. Of which I've made many.

And so it goes. On the birthday that was chalked up to be one of the most depressing yet, I didn't get a party, but a what currently feels like a radiant, shiny new lease on life.

At 24 years old I'm going to embrace the inner Gwyneth, be my own best friend and listen to that little voice inside of my head that knew I would get here all along.

P.S. If it's been implied that I plan on turning into a pretentious, condescending, prissy bitch who never has any fun, I apologize for the lack of clarity on my end. It simply means the end of total wasterdom, and the beginning of this wonderful thing called self-care.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Unhappy Birthday.

Due to the ABSOLUTE FUCKING NONSENSE that has transpired over the past 24 hours, tomorrow I will be spending my birthday NOT in the Mojave desert having a deeply enlightening spiritual experience with copious amounts of wine and peyote, NOT gleefully spraying overweight lesbians with water guns on a Toronto Gay Pride Parade float while dressed up like a unicorn Rainbow Brite hybrid of amazingness, and NOT out and about in a shiny little dress.

Instead I will be home, alcohol-less, fun-less, sex-less and hopped up on painkillers (meaning I also HAVE TO EAT (a.k.a. be fat) lest I want to suffer internal bleeding too) due to a cripplingly painful bacterial infection I incurred from shaving my goddamn leg the other day.

Unhappy birthday to me in-fucking-deed.

P.S. If I sound beyond angry at the world/myself/Bic razors/hospitals/drugs that you can't drink while taking right now it's because I AM.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Old habits die hard.

As you may have noted from the above picture, I am indeed completely obsessive compulsive about my notebooks all being the same shape, size and weight. I'm a creature of habit, I like this specific brand, it's pretty self-explanatory, etc. etc.

Anyways. Of all of the notebooks I've had this year - the blues, the whites and the browns - it's the current blood-red leather bound one as seen above has taken the longest to fill up. I'm unsure as to whether or not it's coincidental or subconsciously acted out (I'm beginning to suspect the latter), but regardless it's true that each book has brought with it a different set of problems, vices and insecurities (the worst of which, in my opinion, are probably contained within this one).

In May and June of this year writing has been less of a priority and yet likely more of a necessity than it has been at any other point in 2009, but something about doing it has just felt too taxing for me to work through and confront. Instead, as has been my pattern with everything from my mental health to my credit card balance, I've chosen to stick my head in the sand like a goddamn idiot of an ostrich and pretend as though nothing is wrong. Nothing. At. All. In this case such metaphorical head-sticking involves not writing all that often. Obviously. Pathetic, I know.

But to bring things back to my initial point: I'm a creature of habit and am addicted to being a person with 'follow-through', and it is for this exact reason that I can't just let the stupid thing go unfinished and move on to the next one, which I have predetermined will be full of nothing but happy summer fun and romance and sunshine and kittens and good outfits and all of that nice, positive, wonderful shit.

So...yeah. As much as I don't want to finish this one (and I reallyreallyreally don't), I have to thanks to this sick instinct in me to be honourable and give it a fair chance.

Whatever. I'm so looking forward to hitting that last page. Even if it does take me another 869490570 days to get there.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009


Wait, weight, fans, hands, nap time with yellow zigzag crosses in my eyes. Burnt skin, extra skin, birthday dinner, new rock n' roll, nervousness. So many sins and I can't breathe without them (or with them either). It makes me start, stop, sneak, wonder.

I asked for definite plans to no avail - more guardedness, more one-ended phone calls and tales of time rather spent alone. Leave me alone. Stomach empty, leave my lungs dry, water bottle filled and CD cases packed full of secrets in verse form because even poetry and music feel way too fucking crushingly honest lately in my bedroom still littered with liquor boxes and lies and ink-stained pillowcases.

What about what studies have shown and movie metaphors and sun-soaked Mojave wrecking yards that I see as beautiful alone? What about the dates alone and daytime promised to be spent together and always postponed? What about the hours of talking words and showing yearbooks? Old scars and dents on my calves haven't healed that fast, and neither has my head (it probably never will).

The laughing voices of men in button-up shirts outside my window are making me fucking insane, feel fucking insane, don't feel anything or just feel like my insides are trying to get outside, are moving too fast, are not letting me sleep. Text message wake-up calls in place of broken alarms shut off by fingers of faded black polish after drenching heat bike rides, story time, novel lies, search words, slutty girls.

And all I can think about is a Sunday night of hair bows with dark roots and all I can feel is wheels stuck in reverse upon streetcar tracks and pedestrian pushes on hospital avenues.

Weird, strange, fantastic fucking week I've been having...or was that already evident?

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

I didn't call him on Father's Day.

And if he ever cared enough about either of us to want to know why...well, this pretty much says everything that I still can't.

Hurricane Heart Attack.

I don't know where it was.

I thought I would die
(but always feel that way on rollercoasters.)

I'm going to go
with you.
Sitting down.

Ooh la la,

The more
I leave,
the less
I lose.

Friday, June 19, 2009

I was born, lucky me.

On Monday my beautiful bike was at last freed from the evil winter imposed confines of my family's garage, meaning I can now go where I please, when I please, at the pace I please (confession: not only am I without car, I am also without license. At almost 24. I know, I know.)

So, yeah. It's really, really, really nice having my bike.

A part of me wishes I could be more eloquent about exactly how nice it is, but that would require me going in to a lengthy and likely boring explanation of my preternatural disdain for public transit/the fact that I walk everywhere and it therefore takes me forever to go anywhere that's not within my 5-block radius of living. Which I won't do, because the acquisition of my absolutely gorgeous and enviable green and yellow cruiser is, after all, merely a footnote to the rest of this post.

I've had no shortage recently of pleasant dates with dudes and whatnot, but last night while riding about town on said bike I came to a really startling and wonderful conclusion which is entirely beyond the messiness of my current dating situation, and it's one that I think worthy of sharing.

Quite simply: there can be no date more perfect than the one you take yourself on.

I did this last night, and feel a metric fuck-tonne better about life as a result. I didn't start out the evening with the intention of taking myself on the best date ever, but somewhere between my amazing and completely uninterrupted by other people/phone checking/book reading/etc. meal on the patio of one of my favourite restaurants and my glorious bike ride over to a fantastically under-the-radar thrift shop (that I never go to because it's just too fucking far without a bike) I noticed that I couldn't stop smiling.

Singing, even.

Yes, that's right. I was warbling along with Ray Davies in the bike lane.

"Victoooooria, Victoooooria, Victoria, Vic-toreeahh"

I most certainly looked like a moron (albeit a moron with really great hair), and I highly doubt my voice sounded even remotely pleasant. But singing along to The Kinks, cruising down College Street (which, I feel it's important to note, was not even close to being empty), it occurred to me that, in the midst of the veritable insanity that is my life, I'd forgotten just how nice being nice to myself feels.


Wednesday, June 17, 2009


Braid your hair. Chalk the sidewalk with Mr. Sun and colour blocks. Jump rope. Carve soap. Clean behind your ears and get 170% of your daily Vitamin C. Eat oatmeal raisin cookies. Replace the bronzer with catnaps in the sunshine. Wear too much blush. Party with pinatas. Finish the greens on your plate first. Put on your helmet. Double on bike rides to the outskirts of the city. Make messy piles of pretty clothes in your room. Frame pictures your friends have drawn for you and hang them on your walls. Invest in a good set of pencil crayons. Go to travel agencies and take brochures for exotic places (then sit cross-legged on your best friend's bed all night and tell each other stories about what you would do if you lived there). Get a dress-up box. Put stickers of flowers on everything you own. Say 'please', 'thank you' and 'good morning' to strangers on the street on Sundays.

I don't care what he says, because if being five years old on the inside feels this good then I'm pretty cool with never growing up.

Friday, June 5, 2009


A maelstrom of auditions that have entered my life this week. I don't believe I've yet mentioned that I'm an actress but yeah, I am (in addition to being a bored office worker, writer and semi-frequent generally debauched mess, of course); the benefit of this is not only the prospect of lots and lots of work that I enjoy coming down the pipeline soon, but also that there has been virtually no time for office boredom, wallowing in self-indulgent blog entries or going out every night and being a waster.

Although I was planning on a 'detox' of sorts from the drinking, drugging and dating anyways, the auditioning is most certainly making such plan easier to execute.

I feel not dead for the first time in ages. And my skin looks fucking fantastic.

Productivity has its benefits, no?

That being said, it's been seven days of a prim, proper and productive Lush, and I terribly miss certain things....Diet Coke, for one. And coffee. And substances. And my [party] friends.

How I'm even surviving being alive without the first two I've no idea; I suppose I have more willpower than I've previously given myself credit for. The other stuff...well, yeah. It's only been seven days, and for those of you who are far, far more well-behaved than I that might not seem like a very long time. I will elaborate no further than to say for me, it is. Very much so, it is.

Tonight brings some of my good behavior to an end, as I will be going out. I'm well aware that some people out there can, through what I assume to be some type of magic, voodoo or witchery of some sort, manage to abstain from drinking entirely when out at the various places I frequent, but I will never be an individual who can exert that kind of demi-god-like self-control over myself. So sue me, it's just the way it is (I also consider 'casual smoker' an oxymoron, in case you were wondering).

So yes, I will be going out and I WILL BE DRINKING. HOORAY!

I won't, however, be staying out all night.

Tomorrow morning brings yet another audition and a film shoot, meaning my usual hot mess Saturday self needs to be sans the mess part, for real. It's all kind of well-timed, considering I'm also in the middle of the Universe's curse that happens once a month to human beings unlucky enough to be born with vaginas. See, productivity really is bringing out a new responsible side of me!

The work day (and the aforementioned curse, for that matter) cannot end fast enough.

Happy Friday!

Thursday, June 4, 2009

I'm always losing to win.

Aren't you so pleased with yourself, being out every night
with drugs and chalked love on the sidewalks outside
rejecting cabs that pass by?

Do you want to play dress up and mess up my room?
Do you want to lie down but put a line down instead?
Do you want clear skin and clean hair, not an ounce of waste anywhere?
Do you want tiny reminders to remember you were there?
Red and orange paints,
sleep all days,
dead phone calls,
new-old sweaters
fur hats and panic attacks?

What do you want?

All I can give you is
all the same words
on all the same days
stranger than the ones that came before them
and likely no stranger than the ones that await.