i want to break free

They are playing the latest Scissor Sisters in the coffee shop. The one that goes, 'Don't feel like dancing, dancing!', and incidentally sees me dancing like a deranged queen. Ironic little minxes, they are. I believe the cute coffee shop boy is also looking at me. I could be wrong, of course, since i am known to be egotistically paranoid. But i think not. This time i don't think my peripheral vision is playing dirty tricks on me... (Ouh! There, he just glanced at me again!... Or, maybe he simply looked up in deep reflexion, and a girl hoppin' & dancin' like she just escaped from an asylum just so happens to be seated directly in his vision range. Right. Am egotistically paranoid.)

I just received an email from my friend Jules over in Europe. I'm really delighted she is having a great time but it also strikes me how i wish i were there too. How i should be there.

Right. Now.

You see, i have this very rational belief. When i really want something bad enough to - god forbid - actually put some significant amount of effort, work & hope (yes, hope, i dare say, so you know i was being dead serious) in it, something i believe would significantly have an impact in my life, then it will not happen should i speak of it. I think this is what people refer to as 'Jinxing'. Or, 'Being Crazy In The Head'.

Regardless, it still remains an indisputable cosmic force that never fails to occur...

EXHIBIT A:
When i was 11 years old, i wanted to go into this special advance class (yes, was a lil' keener back then). The program was bilingual - half of the year in French, the other in English - it was going to be in a different school, it seemed fun & challenging, new & different, and also, obviously, most of my friends were going. We talked & talked about it, how great it would be to spend our last year of primary school together in such a 'fun adventure' (okay, oddly keen... ). Lo & behold, i wasn't accepted. Because - get this - i spoke too well English. It was a bilingual program for advanced & autonomous children in order for them to learn the language, and as i already knew how to count to 10 in Shakespeare's tongue, and did not fail to pronounce 'tree' & 'three' entirely differently, it wasn't going to be worth it for me apparently. Retarded wankers.

Leftover bitterness? No. But it brings back some rather frustrating memory about my bastard elementary school (and it doesn't say much about our schooling system, now does it? tch). Also, it just annoyingly proves my point.

EXHIBIT B:
At the end of 11th grade, Trinity College, a high priced prep school in Ontario, offered a scholarship to two students from my secondary school to attend their program for three years. It wasn't a full scholarship but the opportunity to go away, see & take in another culture (think of where i come from vs. Ontario as California vs. New York, or rather flamboyant nonchalant hippies vs. trendy boxy squares*), and meet different people just set a spark inside me (and considering that i was a rather vapid anti-social lass back then (and still am at times...) that was a remarkable effect). I was so excited, had already begun writing my application letter, and started ranting to my sister how 'awesome' this is going to be until she hit me with the reality of finances. My parents had already put themselves deep in debt for my sister & i to attend good private schools, there was no way they could longer afford to pay the rest of the tuition - a ginormous 5 figure toll coming from here.

I never sent my letter. There is no bitterness at all, nor regret, and i'm not entirely sure it is even a very good argument seeing that it is more because of logistical reasons rather than a non-sensical universal force against my spoken plans that i did not go. (Although i'd like to think so.)

EXHIBIT C:
Upon realising last year that i did not want to pursue my field of study any further, and henceforth having my mirage of a future evaporate before me, i grabbed on to the feeble hope that i shall run away from it all by flying to Europe (England, to be exact) for an indefinite amount of time. This, i thought, was going to be It, Goddamnit. It was the only thing that kept me sane, the beacon in the night, the light at the end of the tunnel. Over-dramatisation? Alas, no.

Staying here, you see, would suffocate me... Staying here would see me, among unpleasant catatonic states: freak out for not knowing what to do with my life, seeing my parents freaking out about my not knowing what to do with my life, freaking out trying to not look freaked out about my parents freaking about my pretending not to freak out (even though i am totally freaking out because everybody i freaking know is getting their shits together except for me, and frankly that'd be a bit of a strain on my already fragile state of mind, thankyouverymuch).

*Breathes*

Unfortunately, the fact that am still here writing these frantic words should imply that yes, i have untimely spoken about these plans to my sister, to my friends, extensively, oh the fool that i am... (Oh, and um, conflicting dates with school, not being able to graduate on time, insufficient funds and feeling rushed had something to do in the abortion of The Plan as well. [This would aso mark the beginning of my wonderful intimate acquaintance with Mr. Effexor but that is another story altogether, i'm afraid.])

CONCLUSION:
Why am i babbling on about this [as oppose to other exciting inanities in my life]? Simply to state this: I will go away around this time next year. 'Nooooo! Don't say that!!', someone screams somewhere, and yes, i understand, have i not learned anything?! The problem is, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT. No matter what happens, graduating or not, rich or poor, i. Will. Go.

I have to.

I am craving to be in London right now. Somewhere where i can finally live my life as i see fit. And not have to answer to anyone. To roll freely along the currents of life & people. Make mistakes. See. Live in a dilapidated hole that is all my own. Watch. Read all day. Write all day. Make Art. Learn. Be submerged in colors, and patterns, and lines, and forms, and light.

Right now, i am living with my folks, taking a semester off, and trying to work more. I am doing this despite that i have only a few courses left in order to graduate. Because, you see, i just need to feel, really. Not particularly for someone or something, but simply for life. For living. I need to feel as if i am working towards The Plan (v. 2.0), which is more related to My Life than my uni degree is at the moment. Even though i know this is going to be tricky - especially when i am surrounded by some people who keep looking at me with pleadingly inquisitive eyes, wondering what the hell i am thinking... Added to that this Jinxing business on my back. Although technically, i am not speaking of it more than writing about it, no?... Should that not count in some way?...

In any case, it should allow the beast pounding in my chest to ease up a little. I just hope that it can hold on until next year without exploding...

Or worse, disappearing.




*i mean this in the nicest possible way - i love folks from Ontario, know loads there, half of my family included, really. Um, cheers!

fever

That's it. After four days of relentless battle, i am regretfully admitting defeat: I. Am. Sick. Body-aching, skin-burning, ears-popping, nose-stuffing, head-weighing-like-my-house sick. My voice also sounds a bit more like Lauren Bacall than Alvin the Chipmunk but i deem that to be A Good Thing. So what better way to spend the day than buried under mountains of bedsheets, sleeping, sneezing, ingesting too many fluids, coughing, sleeping, blowing my nose, whining, whimpering, blowing what's left of my nose, and sleeping again.

Intermittently, i also get to watch some DVD's. The Machinist, though starring my secret lover - aka Christian Bale - in another creepy role, left me rather...blah. I'm sure the cow sitting on my sinuses may have contributed in my relative indifference but it seems that any cut-sequences, memory-impaired murder/redemption plot done after Memento just pales a little in comparison somehow. I don' know. LOVE that Christian though (wanna have his babies!). Good Night, and Good Luck on the other hand was actually pretty good, i find. Tops to Mr. Clooney indeed (though, you've got nothing to worry about, Christian my pet). And Mr. Murrow/Mr. Strathairn's voice is sooooo soothing. Something in his timber makes me all warm and yearning for cinnamon toast & Christmas morning. And be living in the 1950's.

Okay, that's all. Am going back to sleep now.
If only i can will myself to dream of my lover's touch, narrated in Murrow's voice. Mmm.

dead disco

J had left for the restroom after only two rounds of red Griffon. Les Girls had to leave early because A had been experiencing with some Out Of This World Headaches That Cause Collapsing On Subway Floors a couple of months back, and therefore could not stay up 'til the wee hours of the morning anymore (sensible girl, she is), and E was just plain tired.

We had one of those conversation, J & I. A tearful conversation [though in my defense i was hormoning like mad...] about what had happened around these parts of the woods, about JP's birthday, about how even when i feel like things are pulling together inside me it can still so easily shread to pieces, about how his relationship with his boyfriend isn't as desirable as it could be, about how everything is still quite daunting, and tedious, and so hard. Because we obviously haven't a clue about what we are doing.

"Sorry, can i put my jacket here?", a nice looking guy asked me as i sat there in a foggy daze.
"Of course, go ahead!"
"Thank you..." He courteously smiled. I spread my hand out.
"That'll be 10 cents, please."
He laughed. "I'd ask for 10$ if i were you."
"Yeah, well that's because i'm nicer than you are."
He laughed again. "What's your name?"
I gave him my name, and politely returned the question.
"LUC!", he shouted at me after i've repeatedly failed to hear him over the music. We shook hands.

I love this place. It had been awhile since we'd been here, and just as we stepped through the door, it felt like home. And everybody is so goddamn nice [as oppose to sleezy, or presumptious, or contemptuous as you sometime get in most nightclubs, and although i realize i am vastly generalizing, and in all fairness i was never really drunk enough in nightclubs as to start professing 'I loooove you's, but when was the last time you shook anybody's hand in a nightclub without wanting to shudder incontrollably and/or immidiately sanitize your entire arm in boiling water?].

"I'll see you later...", Luc said, waving gentlemanly.

Later, J dragged me to the itty-bitty 'dance floor' because MSTRKRFT was playing. We proceeded into prancing ourselves like retarded whores that we are when a boy with a red baseball cap & a college sweater joined us during our signature Mr. Roboto moves. "THIS IS WHERE YOU RAISE YOUR ARMS NOW!", J suddenly shouted at him. And just like good little kiddies, we all promptly jaunted our arms in the air. We oozed sexiness.

Before leaving, i wrote 'Bonne soirée, Luc!' on the back of my water bottle label, and slipped it in Luc's jacket. Along with a dime.

We walked down St-Laurent, singing [me] and skipping [ J ], enjoying one of the last summer nights we have here together. My Faith In Human Beings Scale had re-gained 1.5 pts.

It'd been a lovely night.

maneater

Things that kept me awake last night:

• Buggering Headache - with its epicentre in the upper left corner of my left eye;
• Freezing coldness - despite that all the windows were closed and we are only in SEPTEMBER!
• Racking brain in order to figure out cause of Buggering Headache (down to either (1) carelessly slumbering while cleaning ear, resulting in Q-tipping a bit too far...; or (2) walking in the rain because the Weatherman announced rain - which would generally mean 'you will drag your umbrella around for NOTHING, ha ha hahahaa, you fool!' - so obviously did not bring umbrella);
• Wishing very bad things to Weatherman;
• Construction workers pounding, drilling, throwing, dropping large metal-ringing thingies near my backyard at 4 O'CLOCK IN THE BLOODY MORNING;
• Cursing somnolence-challenged construction workers with ancient African ills;
• Sneezing blood - may or may not be due to any combination of the above;
• Hearing, 'Maneater, na-na-na nuh. Na-na-na nuh. Na-na-na nuh. Na nuh-nuh', in my head. Over and over and over and over....;
• Hating Nelly Furtado.

hello world

Hello (again)!

Right, so i suppose this is my first 'real' post for the previous one was more like a test (hence its name - clever, this one...). I think i passed. I only fretted in fear of being, in no particular order, bared naked, ragged, stalked and/or stoned (and consequently started rocking back & forth in a dark corner trying to convince myself that it never happened) for about forty minutes, or so. Hurray for moi!...

This is probably the point where i should perhaps explain why, as any sensible person would ask (assuming that there's anyone at all reading this, not to mention a 'sensible' person but i digress greatly), would i put myself in such a panic then. Aside for the possibility that i am a masochist? Well, the answer is manifolds. Mainly, it is to:

1. Fill out a ridiculous amount of time where i should probably be doing something else but won't bc i am the Queen of Procrastination (yes, i am shamelessly claiming that title, and beware to those who try to take it from me);
2. Write, write, write - albeit flagrant stupidity - bc i realize the amount i write is inversely proportionate to my chances of imploding;
3. Somehow learn something throughout this entire 'Growing Up Thing' (or not...I'm not that optimistic really...);
4. ...Actually, am really just a silly impressionable girl, and all the cool kids are doing it, y'know...

As for who i am, and "all that David Copperfield kind of crap", there's that little link on the right, there. I'd prefer to keep my anonymity for the moment bc i fear the sheer beauty of my being might conjure ferocious jealousy and/or stun the world forever. [Interruptis: gagging. Apologies.] And if by some miraculous chance, e.g. i tell you, you are among those who know my true identity, i beg you lovingly to shut up (no, i am not a fabulous Old-World spy - though not through lack of trying).

There. I hope my utter self-indulgent vernacular won't cause too much involuntary nausea. It will get worse. If it does however, i apologise, truly, and invite you to point your cursor & click that 'x' icon-thingy in the upper-right corner. No. The other one. As for leaving vile & nasty comments, that is also welcomed of course, although not very nice of you, now is it? Shame on you.

p.s.: Oh. And please, don't take what i say here too personally or seriously. Really, i do have the best of intentions (most of the time). Just ask my mum. Or that dusty bearded man with the parka in front of Second Cup - on the corner of St-Denis? yah, he loves me.

testing - one, two, three - testing.

Um...Yes, hello...
This is...it?
:S