Be-in.

Everyone should know how it feels to stand around in a muggy August hot kitchen, drinking wine too fast, talking too fast, changing songs too fast in the company of friend-love and love-love, wiping the smudged eyeliner out from under your eyes to see, so clearly, exactly where I am.

To be 23 and on my own was great. It was great, terrible fun. And it was what I needed, even when I didn't know that I did.

But to be 24. To be 24 and not on my own is more happiness and more sadness than I've ever known. And everyone should know how it feels to feel both.

Because when I'm wiping the playground sand off my best friend's shoulders as he runs off into the night, chasing something that even he can't say, I wish these moments of swing set park declaration huge, massive, overwhelming happiness for every living, breathing, thinking thing in the world. I watch the rest of them jump off picnic tables and let their feet take them where they're going. I know that just because I've been found...well, that doesn't mean that so many aren't still lost.

But the greatest thing about a love like this?

All it takes to heal the world inside my head is having him, at the end of the night, to rest it on.

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
down
with you.
Sitting down.

Ooh la la,
annhilation.

The more
I leave,
the less
I lose.

Stuff

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!

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.

Played out (and still oh-so true)

"I always tell the girls: never take it seriously. If you never take it
seriously, you never get hurt. You never get hurt, you always have fun.

...And if you ever get lonely, you just go to the record store and visit
your friends."

Words from Almost Famous' Miss Penny Lane and the sky of unrelenting sunshine make all of this past week's nonsense feel pretty alright on this gorgeous Friday afternoon. And a photo of my favourite record store friend, of course, thrown in for good measure.

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.

Come Down.

My thoughts as of late have consisted of little beyond the following subjects.

1. O Canada: I HATE YOU. People are not intended to live in dark, damp and freezing cold misery nine months out of the year. They're just not. I've yet to let you, winter, stop me from going out and living my life and so and so forth these past few horrible months...but really, don't you think enough is enough already?

So I've given up, you win.

I've come to terms with the fact that I will continue to be bored with the same unflattering baggy sweaters, the same black tights and the same three coats that I wear over and over and OVER again until you finally decide to let the fuck up and go away. I've also entertained the possibility that you will quite simply never go away, and have in fact decided to persist until the end of time. I hate you so much that I'm considering skipping the country altogether and going to live in the desert. Which brings me to my next point...

2. Joshua Tree, California, 24th birthday, road trip. At some point last week it occured to me that I absolutely, positively cannot be in this city on my birthday. I'm not sure why I came to this conclusion - I haven't had a 'Big Deal Birthday' since I turned double digits (pathetic, I know), but for some reason the prospect of being 24 is hitting me like a veritable tonne of bricks. Nor do I have any clue as to why I've chosen Joshua Tree, California as the place I'd like to spend it.
But I do.
And I will.
And I'm totally going and it's going to be ridiculously brilliant.

...and if it's not, there's always the slight chance that it'll actually be warm in June in Toronto and at the very least I'll be able to go about my usual activities of waster-dom in bare legs and sandals again. Not counting on it given the pure, unadulterated evil that is the aforementioned Canadian weather though.

3. Dating or something like it? This one's a bit more difficult to summarize, but I'll give it my best shot: what the fuck is dating? If I'm hanging out with and sleeping with someone on the regular are we 'dating', or just having casual sex *shudder*? Do I even want to be dating? Do I even care? And why am I wasting mental energy thinking about it?

Ugh.


...So yeah. Other than that stuff life is as boring throughout the work day/busy in the evenings as ever. Same old, same old, same old, same old. Whatever.

You never get wise, you only get older.

There's that evil beauty again

in the booths of booze and

slights of hand,

smock dresses and smokers stresses,

party favours through the favours of friends.

Glittering like a speck of sand

hit by the opalescent night.

The night is ours with our

skinny legs taking us nowhere

oh so fast

when we're everywhere

with everything for which

we didn't have to ask.

So get back

to watching videos of

destruction

and corruption

and the Power

of Positive Thinking.

Because our pictures are

in the newspaper box

and on the newspaper box

now too.

It's no crime?

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.

Aftermath

Friday.
Decide to find a new job, become intent upon finding new job. Crash a Von Bondies show across the street from my place, make flirty small talk with a handsome 20 year old boy, kidnap such boy and take him to wherever those L.A. girls are tonight, take him to crowded bathroom stalls, take him to McDonald's, take my time. Sleep, eventually. He can sleep in the kitchen.

Saturday.
Wake up with a 20 year old boy in my house. Wake. Up. Sit in Starbucks alone, run into a friend and open his store with him; listening to the Rolling Stones and eating muffins there, it feels like life is good. Leave the store under the glare of McCaul, and go for a walk. Run into leeching friends, run into the ex and his new, semi-handsome roommate. Go to the bookstore. Get hit on by creepy lecherous dudes hanging out in the Self Help aisle. Run away. Oh yeah, it's Valentine's Day, isn't it? Walk around underground for hours, and think about how fucked up things were on the eve of this day exactly one year ago. Decide a pasta binge is in order. Make pasta, binge, help R move boxes up and down staircases, up and down, up and down. Binge again. Text war with a boy. Binge a little more. Pass out. Blank.

Sunday.
Wake up late, get coffee and snack, wait for R, drink with R, eat pizza, D and C come over, A comes over. Cab ride. Guvernment special treatment, shit DJs, whistling girls who think we're the girlfriends of the shit DJs, dancing, smoking in the back behind a screen of laser light. Peeing with the help of a key shaped like a baby's arm and a dude who's a stranger peeing in the sink while someone supervises so no one looks at one another. Scummy. Hot dogs outside with R after a lot of stolen-from-the-shit-DJ-beers and gold lame leggings dancing through lasers. Cab ride. So-called after hours at some guy's place. Other people sitting on the floor, all boring. Fat girls in McDonald's while the sun's quickly coming up, who work for the company I desperately applied to on Friday. Karma! Fate! My life as a waster has all come together for a reason!
Or not.
Just more BLT bagels outside in the cold, bagels with cheese in toaster ovens like my mom used to make for me, sleeping in a bed with R on the other side while the sun is glaring, warm and hope-filled, through my tiny window. Peace.

Monday.
Wake. R. More bagels. R in aviators and a polo cardigan, me in fat-day leggings and a baggy sweater and shades that aren't mine, hiding my disdain for that sun which I loved that morning. Loved it with all my being. Bagels and sunshine, great ways to end a great night. Stumble over to my mother's house, occupied only with my brother and his drugs and my television. Do something good for my future, that I said I would do over a month ago. Watch five police cars stop everyone and everything that moves under another window. Wonder, is the danger greater now or when they leave? Good question, or paranoia? Decide firmly upon the latter and OH FUCK what about my brother, he left right before they arrived! Could this all be about him? Oh no, oh no, oh no. Motivation to let the paranoia take over and call HE'S FINE. So I'll wait longer. Get home. Get stoned. Fall asleep at a good time for the first time in a while. And don't forget to set the alarm, the shower can wait til tomorrow.

Tuesday.
New French Girl living here in my house. What the fuck, why is someone else up at the same time as me? Motivation to make coffee, make small talk, drag my ass out of there. Work sucks. Apply to more jobs that will ignore me. Pretend to care about other people's shit and can't manage to be really quite nice to any of them.
Another fucking day in the easy life.
And it's so fucking hard.
But walk home eventually, purposefully, dress hems and meetings with mom in mind. There are voices in my kitchen that don't sound like the usual ones, but I'm sure someone just has friends over, nothing new. Except they're old faces. Chinese lady landlord, father of the bitch upstairs and an old, faded man I've never seen before. Miserable, sad McCaul has kicked us out. She's crazy. She'sabsolutelyandcompletelyinsaneandTRICKSpeopleintothinkingshe'snotbutsheis and Oh My God I Have to Move Again.
I Have No Money.
Oh
God.
The past three months of my life flash before my eyes and I continue to calmly marker my dresses, get a move on. Hang out with my mother, trade insults with my brother, take the streetcar 'home', drop out from thinking about what I'm going to do. My dead grandpa's sweater and favourite plaid are comforts, but not comforts enough. And I don't know where the fuck I'm going to go now. Sleep.

Work.

I've been sitting at my desk absolutely blank-faced and cross-eyed for just over an hour now. Not moving. Seriously.

Moreover, I'm developing a somewhat borderline abusive relationship with Visine, Vicks Vapour Inhalers and smoke breaks just because I quite simply have nothing better to do with my time. I don't expect you to fully understand why I'm polluting myself with such activities, but I would like to state that if you were in this position right now you would most likely understand why a rather violent rush of chemical eucalyptus up your nose, eye drop tears streaming down your face and passive-aggressively pissing off your co-workers with the stench of your millionth B&H at 2:46 p.m. is better than nothing.

How is it possible that I'm able to go days on end, weeks even, without doing anything I actually care to do here? No wonder my mind wanders as it does and I'm sitting in front of this ridiculous screen typing these ridiculous words for anyone and no one in the world to read....

I'd say another coffee break is in order.

Acid House Killed Rock n' Roll

Things I Have Learned In January 2009

[various sources]

Mondays are the new Fridays for going out and getting absolutely shitwrecked (not only are they more fun, free drinks are also easier to come by).
Tuesday nights are the new Sunday nights for being domestic and well-behaved (while only partially drunk).
Black is the new neon to "everyone who matters" (in this stupid, pretentious, late-on-the-mark fucking city).
EVERYONE KNOWS EVERYONE and nothing is private (particularly when you still don't have a door on your room).
My family are the best friends I could ever ask for in the world (I have no snarky comment to add to this, it's quite simply just true).
Sleep and food are important things for living human beings to get (but you can, on average, go 36-48 hours without either and be fine...or at least seem like it as far as your colleagues are concerned).
Not working with your roommates is a really, really good thing (getting their discount at the places they work, on the other hand, is).
Craigslist missed connections is the most entertaining thing to be found on the internet (the more hostile the post the better).
And sadly acid house did kill rock n' roll (but thankfully it also gave us Primal Scream).

Saturday.

Waking up with the boy I like in my house (n.b. mom: I know you're most likely reading this, and you can rest assured that nothing of that sort happened) was categorically pleasant, as was our trek to a sit-down breakfast place a few blocks away on a bright, sunny, minus-fucking-nineteen-degrees-Celsius Toronto morning. Of course the brilliant idea of his to make our way over to this specific breakfast joint required that we had to wait in line for twenty minutes outside in the horrendous-fucking-minus-nineteen-degrees-Celsius weather to be seated...

But thankfully for such boy the bacon, eggs and toast were excellent. For had they not been, boy-I-like may have quickly and irreparably turned into boy-who-made-me-wait-in-the-cold-for-a-sub-par-breakfast.

Which he abandoned me halfway through, mind you. Waiting in the aforementioned treacherous line-up discussing the weather with a bunch of proletarian metropolitan well-to-do's meant that our strange, pseudo-date time of eating hangover homefries and cryptically flirting with one another was cut a bit shorter than initially planned. He had to go to work, which I could have and probably should have accompanied him to (I was, after all, merely nursing a third cup of coffee at that point), but I truly didn't mind being left on my own in a breakfast joint anyways...so I didn't.

In fact, I think it's safe to say that I don't understand or want to associated with anyone who does mind being left alone in a busy downtown breakfast spot run by charming French people with their thoughts and a recently updated iPod on a cold Saturday morning.

My half hour of solitude in such restaurant turned out to be so lovely that on my walk home I determined that it could be followed by none other than a trip to the bookstore in a similarly glorious state of being by myself. Even the rude shopgirl who curtly explained to my visibly-hungover ass that "some authors are more prone to theft" when I inquired as to why the Bukowski book I wanted was furtively hidden behind the counter couldn't bring me out of my I Love Being By Myself high. I didn't even respond to her in an equally bitchy fashion (which, might I add, is perhaps the second time this has ever happened without first undergoing duress from those around me) and instead thanked her so much for her assistance and politely paid up.

I finally arrived back at The Very Strange Apartment I Share With Very Strange People at some point mid-afternoon only to find...
Broken glass in the kitchen? Check.
Clothing and jewelry that aren't mine strewn about my room in the aftermath of OneHellOfaFridayNight? Check.
Too many empty bottles to even think about throwing in one garbage bag? Check.
A phone beeping with text messages from boys I'd rather not respond to? Check.

$2.75 and a six minute streetcar ride later, I arrived at my safe haven (a.k.a. my mother's home which no one resides in on the weekends). It's not that I needed to escape...well yeah, actually, I think I kind of did. But anyways, thank fucking god for the safe haven. Everyone should be so blessed as to have such a thing.

So I proceeded to top off an already-glorious Saturday with listening to 'Open Heart Surgery' by the Brian Jonestown Massacre on repeat for two hours while staring out the window and timing the streetcars going by, and eating more Turtles than I thought humanly possible. Oh, and I eventually cracked open Portraits of a Wine-Stained Notebook. Which, naturally, merely led to writing (read: self-pityingly whining) in my very own wine-stained notebook about how, while I may be a drunk asshole, I will never be as good at being a drunk asshole as Charles Bukowski was.

Saturday was a brilliant day.

Twentieth.

Warming feet in the tub
stained with hair dye from a new guy
who I live with.
Grey nightgowns, grey ashes into water
PSFT. Psft. pfst.
It’s a good noise we make.

I don’t even like you that much.
Nightclubbing. And listening to
English Girls Approximately
and The Drug’s Not Working
in a full bed at 4 a.m.

Smoking more cigarettes
with people I’ve met
mere hours and days before.

And I don’t even miss you.
Not one single bit.
But oh,
look at you
now.

Best I’ve ever seen.