It's just, like...well, y'know...

I find myself wondering if everything is horribly, awfully wrong or wonderfully, magically right in my life right now.

My city has been taken hostage.

by Tamil protesters. And I've had enough of it.

I didn't complain when my walk to and from work every day became comprised by having to weave through thousands of shouting Tamils on too-narrow sidewalks on a daily basis. Nor did I say anything when I was knocked on the head by one violently waving around a massive sign with President Obama's face on it...and, like, what the fuck, he's not even our President (?!).

Four weeks of this have worn my patience, sure, but I get that Sri Lanka is 'in need' of Canadian intervention or whatever and have kept my mouth shut about the whole debacle accordingly. Politics don't particularly interest me and I'm not very informed about whatever it is they're protesting. They're quite vehement in their persistence, so I imagine it must be bad...but really, I have enough on my plate as it is and the plight of the Tamil people isn't something I feel equipped to add to it at this point in time (yeah, so sue me, I never claimed to not be self-involved...)

The reason I am writing this, though, is that they've finally gone too far. According to various news sources around the city the Tamils are planning on taking the TTC hostage at some point today - and I don't care who you are or how desperate your cause is, you do NOT fuck with our transit system.

Truthfully this isn't a selfish stance to take - I'm fortunate enough to live, work and access everything I generally require by walking, and any TTC service disruptions make absolutely no difference to my quality of life. Instead I'm thinking of the millions upon millions of Torontonians who do rely on a functional TTC to get to work, pick up their kids from soccer practice, meet their friends for dinner, etc.

This is no longer peaceful demonstration, it's terrorism. Not only are they getting increasingly scary in their downtown core protests, they're now hindering people's mobility as well. So I'm going to come right out and say what I've been wanting to, politcal correctness be damned:

GO BACK TO YOUR OWN COUNTRY AND FIX YOUR OWN FUCKING PROBLEMS. There are obviously enough of you to form a not-so-small army, and you seem to have the rage bit covered, so GO.

As if Sunday wasn't enough (yeah, you saw that right, that's the Gardiner Expressway. If you know nothing of Toronto here's a little backstory: whatever retarded city planners made the city made this stupid highway basically the only way in and out of it...and they blocked it for hours).

(Photos property of Torontoist)

I see the beauty in everything.

Rained-on couches, kitchen counter seats and spying texts. Forever car passenger rides. Being grown-ups, being children, wrong ways on the highways. Still high from the city sky and supersaturated vermilion fields, pie and flower stands on the side of the road. Wholesome sweaters, documentary tears, midnight toast, an increasingly sore throat.

There's no come down, and pictures just wouldn't do any of it any justice at all.

The Girl in the Dirty Shirt.

Old favourite Oasis songs and these ridiculously pretty Christophe Kutner photographs (which, FYI, are making me a little nostalgic for my uber-blonde hair) make uneventful Wednesdays far more enjoyable than they would be otherwise. Can this week just be over yet?

If I may be so bold that I just say something

come and make me my day.

The clouds around your soul don't gather there for nothing

but I could chase them all away

Why'd you need a reason for to feel happy?

Or be shining for the rest of the world?

Give me just a smile, and would you make it snappy?

Get your shit together, girl.

You've got a feeling lost inside it just won't let you go.

Your life is sneaking up behind it just won't let you go.

No, it just won't let you go.

Here's what I'm trying to say...

Is would you maybe come dance here with me?

Because to me it doesn't matter if your hopes and dreams are shattered.

When she says something, she'll make me believe

In the girl who wears a dirty shirt

She knows exactly what she's worth to me.

If you ever find yourself inside a bubble,

you've got to make your own way home.

But you can call me anytime you're seeing double.

Now you know you're not alone.

You've got a feeling lost inside it just won't let you go.
Your life is sneaking up behind it just won't let you go.
No, it just won't let you go.
Here's what I'm trying to say...

Is would you maybe come dance here with me?
Cos to me it doesn't matter if your hopes and dreams are shattered.
When she says something, she'll make me believe
In the girl who wears a dirty shirt
She knows exactly what she's worth to me.
And now I see.

Hey, there's nothing in my heart. I'd rather be cool than be smart.

That's not true, of course. But Come Down by the Dandy Warhols is a perrenial favourite, and I know far, far too many people for whom it is true, so...yeah.

Marvellous May has begun marvellously enough, what with a weekend just having passed which consisted of the usual wasterdom, vampiric sleeps and getting a lot of clarity where my various romantic interests are involved. And, moreover, it taught me a few things.

I've learned that nothing helps you get over one romantic lead like the emergence of another.

I've learned that one day, you will get that moment of revenge on the jock assholes you went to high school with. And it will feel every bit as good as you imagined it would.

I've learned that packing sunglasses in your purse when you leave the house at midnight to go out is always a good idea. Same goes for making your bed - you'll appreciate yourself for doing so when you finally climb back into it at 10 a.m.

And I've learned that at the end of it, after all of the drinks, drugs, outfit changes and plastic cups have been drunk, taken, worn and emptied, all you really need are the pages of a new notebook and a phone call from someone you love.

April Is Over.

It's all been a little serious and depressing around here lately, hasn't it? And I'm truthfully not as brooding or miserable as I might sometimes appear. So while April Oh Nine admittedly wasn't the best month ever, on the first sunny day of Marvellous May (n.b. thankfuckinggodAprilisover) I'm going to take a moment to wax poetic about what was nice about it.

Things I Liked In April

The small 'garden' (and I use that term loosely) of plants I made on my bedroom windowsill that I haven't had to water most days because it has rained all the fucking time. As such, the garden is flourishing in a manner that it most certainly would not if left under solely my care.

Chattering endlessly with friends about spring flings and summer loves and bikinis and beers and rooftops and all of the wonderful things that make our lives so fucking wonderful. It sounds and IS really lame, but they're gorgeous nights of being lame nonetheless.

Waking up to Snap Cup Love on the kitchen wipeboard! If you haven't seen the cinematic masterpiece that is 'Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde' then you won't really get this one. Meaning get thyself to a video store stat, rent it and come back to leave your jealous comments about how I really do have the best roommates in the world.

Chai tea with plain soy milk. I've determined that this concoction of deliciousness will never taste as good in any other month as it does in April. Why? Because it is comfort in an oddly reassuring Venti cup, that's why. And rarely have I required such comfort as much as I have in Awful April (it was initially called Awesome April, but that went out the window about four days into said month, so...)

Oh, and if you think my list is lame, please keep in mind the things that have made my life absolute shit this April, which include but are not limited to:

- finding out that my ex-boyfriend probably has cancer. Or is pretending to to get my sympathy vote. Either way.
- general impoverishment and being unable to afford the things I want
- feeling fat (those of you who know me in real life: SHUT UP. Yes, I know I'm objectively not fat. I just feel it sometimes, okay?)
- flaky hipster boys who only want what they can't have

...Yep, April. Is. Over.

Better off as the fool than the owner of that kind of heart.

I may have been the kind of girl who wore her heart on her sleeve at some point in my life, but I can say with a good deal of certainty that I haven't been that type for quite some time. Somewhere along the line playing my cards close to my chest seemed like the logical thing to do, and it's since become dangerously easy to simply never show my cards to anyone at all.

I'm not saying that my guardedness is wise or clever or particularly well thought-out, but everything and everyone is based on such fucking externality anyways that really, what difference does it make? So long as my thighs don't touch and my roots have been touched up and my heavily braceleted wrists are thinner than the girls' sitting next to me, it doesn't. So long as I go out often enough (but not too much) and drink this and know the bar staff there and that club owner here and am always welcome in the booth, it doesn't. So long as there's a vague sense of knowing that I'm smarter than all of this, more than all of this and not trapped by all of this, it doesn't.

Or does it?

The fortress of anonymity that I've built and fiercely protect around Nightgowns & Cigarettes can be somewhat problematic for me; just because they don't know me doesn't stop me from wanting them to at times...but, mind you, not enough for me to confess to anything.

So what will it take for me to stop being so horribly scared? The mention in a recent issue of Eye Weekly certainly didn't do it. As we sat there on our stolen couch, the newspaper print of the thin pages staining our fingers as they flipped through, taking note of the photos of our friends and columns about the bars that we get free drinks in, surveying the events that we'll accept and decline the inevitable invites to and it was there, caught in my throat right there with the smoke, and for a brief, fleeting moment I wanted them to know. "You see the word Lush there, in bold on the fifth page's Letters section? Yeah, well, that's me."

It would have been so easy, and it wouldn't, couldn't come out. It absolutely couldn't come out. For them to see it and know, to attach the faces and names to every post would be the death of all of the honesty I have in me and reserve for here. It's why I carry my notebook with me everywhere I go and hide it if I'm sleeping, showering or if my purse is too small to fit it in. It's why I lock all of my old, finished notebooks in a desk to which only I have the key.

Not to be too morbid on a Friday afternoon or anything, but here it goes: I often wonder what'll happen to them if I die unexpectedly.

...yeah, too morbid. But one more reason to stay alive long enough to see my eventual death coming I guess.