Wednesday mid-morning coffee break.

Sometimes I just don't feel like using my words or my brain because sometimes it all just comes out the same way as it did yesterday and sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who knows what I mean.

Do you know what I mean?

Sometimes I don't want to write I just want to look at pictures of Anita Pallenberg in 1968 and study the angular sharpness of her face and wear more fur smoke more cigarettes draw my eyes black and heavy and wake up at whatever hours I want.

Sometimes I just want to be horrible and not care and not bite my hands, not hate my arms every time I pass by a mirror.

Sometimes I don't want to read about hope or love or see any more long-legged girls in beautiful outfits that I could never fit into or afford.

Sometimes I want no one inside my head but him and I take back everything I've done and...just, sometimes, oh.

Oh. Suck it back, stamp it out, oh.

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.

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.

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.

Friday Fun.

This week did not start out on the best of notes to say the least. A Friday and Saturday of unbridled, dangerously enjoyable debauchery resulted in me showing up at my soul-sucking gray hell of a Major Depressive Episode-inducing cubicle on Monday morning without the following items (or, for that matter, a clue as to what in the fucking fuck I am doing with my life):

- iPhone. Lost somewhere between Saturday night's fourteen trillion overpriced cab rides and the creepiest after-hours I've ever had the pleasure of curling up on a couch and chain-smoking in at 4 a.m. A few very nice young Irishmen sporting mohawks - who may or may not have been involved in illegal activity - attempted to help me look for it in said after-hours, but it was not found and I woke up at some ungodly hour the next day bemoaning my existence as a result. Never before did I know how utterly lost and helpless I would feel without a fucking gadget. Eww, am I technologically dependent or what?

- Contact lenses. Somehow I managed to rip one in half while it was still in my eye, which I discovered around the same time that I began bemoaning my iPhone-less life on Sunday. This really smart move of mine left me with no choice but to place an order for a new pair, impatiently wait for them to arrive (a.k.a. bombard the bitchy optometrist's secretary with demanding phone calls every six hours), and wear my broken, horrendously ugly glasses in the interim, lest my blindness wind me up in the middle of an intersection or something equally life-threatening/dumb.

- My dignity. This one I'm not going to get into for obvious reasons. But yeah, it might have gone missing there for a couple of days, I won't deny it.

Alas. To paraphrase the hottest Beatle (Mr. George Harrison), all things must pass indeed, and that they have...

I got my eyes back, I bought a new iPhone, and I have been having a seriously excellent run of good hair days. Tonight brings about a massive and expertly planned (by me, obvi) birthday throwdown for my amazing roommate, and tomorrow the weather is apparently going to be conducive to going outdoors with, like, bare legs and stuff. And did I mention that I also acquired the sickest pair of red, polka-dotted, heart-shaped Lolita sunglasses courtesy of my other wonderful roommate? And that the really nice Australian girl who works at the hostel I live across the street from has offered my roommates and I an open invitation to the delicious free pancake breakfast they make every morning? I'm fairly certain she's a lesbian and I'm also fairly certain that she's attempting to convert my hetero ass, but regardless. Yes, yes and yes.

One more thing to be happy about on this beautiful day: Kasabian are back on form after that trainwreck that was 'Empire'. Having heard 'Underdog' and this one that follows (which is accompanied by the coolest music video I've seen in years...take note, Primal Scream), I expect 'West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum' will be my glorious soundtrack to my glorious Summer Oh-Nine.
Enjoy.

Kasabian - Vlad the Impaler from Kasabian on Vimeo.



P.S. Expect the Shame Sprial that is my life to continue upon its usual course as of early next week, but let happy be happy for now, aiight?

Random Thursday Happiness includes...

1. Finding the perfect dress to wear to this wedding I have attend on Saturday. The prospect of being stranded in a place outside of my agreeable realm of TTC service (I honestly don't remember the last time I went somewhere that the TTC did not extend out to..it's kind of terrifying) filled with strangers and family that I hate (Hi, Dad) is emotionally daunting enough for me thankyouverymuch, I don't need the added worry of looking sub-par. And now, thanks to the lovely dress I acquired last night in a post-work power shop, I won't.

I first learned this lesson from a wise, brilliant friend who always sauntered in to our most formidable 8 a.m. university exams looking absolutely and entirely impeccable. When I eventually worked up the nerve to ask her why this was the case, I was met with a bit of wisdom which has not been quickly forgotten: "If this all turns out shit, which it probably will, at least I know I can catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror later and feel better about life."

Moral of the story: A dress that makes your boobs look great combined with a healthy amount of narcissism can go a long way when you're out of your comfort zone.

2. The fact that I have the next four days free to do whatever I please with (with the exception of the aforementioned wedding uncomfortable-ness...but hey, it's an excuse to wear a pretty dress, drink on someone else's dollar and flirt with dudes, so it can't be all bad).

Knowing me this means that the next four days of my life will consist of little more than my usual chain-smoking/drinking/going out/sleeping in/eating food every once in a while, but then again most anything that's not being confined within the beige walls of office hell seems pretty fucking delightful by me.

3. This, this and this article by Kate Carraway for Eye Weekly. I'm pretty sure she's been following me around town given the absolute fucking spot-on ness of her columns lately in relation to my life. Or we're just the same person. Either way.

4. The following photos of impossibly beautiful Scandinavian-by-way-of-Seattle models living out my dreams of summer, being gorgeous and grunge-tastically bohemian. Whoever is the first to find me a hot Kurt Cobain-esque boyfriend, so-ugly-it-borders-on-being-cute floral crochet poncho and a turquoise van to play guitar on top of first wins at life...fuck it, find me even one of those things and I'll buy you a cupcake or something.

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.

Even In Your Lightest Day.

Tuesday night.

Get an old mirror back from the place I've left behind, get drunk and get to bed on time to wake up for work tomorrow morning.

And stare at myself in the old mirror, shrunken and sunken and older and as confused as ever. And listen.

Everything you are you have come so far, but did you bury your needs?
And you aren't that young.

Thanks, Darker My Love. I really needed that right now. Ugh.