the beast and dragon, adored

Just for the record, things aren’t ‘bad’ in London. Shocking, I know, from recent [and most, to be honest] posts in this here blogue.

It’s just that when things are ‘good’ you’d rather enjoy it rather than sit & shit it away through your fingers. Because the more you write about the ‘good’ things, the more you dwell on them, and the more you pick at them, and the more you tear them apart. Until you effectively kill them.

So you don’t describe how incredibly cool double-decked buses are without thinking about the maddening traffic or insane driving. And you don’t mention your favorite restaurant with the friendliest staff without worrying about the precarious financial situation that living in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD breeds. And you don’t rave about the innumerable art wonders available at your fingertips to wipe away a bad day without hanging an equal amount of pretentious ‘arty’ wankers pestering the sites. And you definitely don’t want to talk about how freakishly awesome things with the boyfriend are... without ignoring the overwhelming fear when comes the imminent day you will need to part.

So yeah, I’d rather not write about the ‘good’ stuff, thank you, but that’s just me.

For the record.

ball cap*

After five months in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. But why aimlessly & disorderly ramble on about it when I can use subheadings to fart out air of deluded self-importance? Yeah!

(Even though I’m sure as I type this, I have jinxed everything and will be ridden to bedrest, run over by a mental bus driver & infested with a new form of malaria. It is London after all.)

1. Slaving for the Man Pig

Back home, I worked in a relatively nice restaurant in the heart of one of the trendier places of the city. After six years, and though I met and befriended some lovely folks there, it’s not exactly a place to work on a daily basis if your mental health is so intricately dependent upon your Faith In Human Beings. So you have to ask yourself, why in the name of sweet baby Jaysus have I found myself in one of the busiest and ‘trendiest’ joint in town?




Don’t look at me.
I’ve been punched in the face.**

Also, as I’d hate to ‘bite the hand that feeds me’ (or some other proverb, maxim, aphorism or witticism – you know, one of those, I can’t b e bothered), it is kinda exactly what I’ve asked for, innit? And despite having to deal with people who seem to have bitterly overgrown their nappies & become vaguely aware that it would be somewhat frowned upon to be seen breastfed by their mummies, answering questions to which you’ve already explicitly replied, demands that boggles any human logic and rudeness that brings about the Godzilla within about 50 times more than what you deem should be the legal amount allowed before committing random acts of violence - with compliance and a warm smile! - it is actually not that bad…. (Aside, of course, for the slight twitch I’ve developped in my right arm from restraining it to swing forth.)

The food is purdhy awesome – and free *winks* - and the entertainment from the ubiquitous love affairs, cliques, backstabbing, whisperings and glares is completely fabulous if not completely exasperating.

And I did get to see Hugh Grant.

Complain not lest ye be judged, I say!

2. Being A Consumerist Whore

Portobello market’s insane and TopShop is pricier than it appears. But for the little time and money I’ve had in my name I somehow managed to buy five pairs of shoes/boots since I’ve been here. Count it – one, two, three, four, five – five pairs of shoes/boots in one, two, three, four, FIVE months. (That’s one per month without food, for those out there who’s counting, thank you.) Granted, I’m a long way from becoming Carrie Bradshaw, but foregoing basic survival instincts to, say, live, in exchange for footwear? T’is my new life aspiration!

Seriously. Never have I been surrounded by so many beautiful, comfortable and affordable shoes in my life. Yes, affordable. And comfortable. And did I mention gor-gei-yuuuusss? Forget Mr. Effexor***, give me pumps any day!

You see, the great thing about London, fashion and design are embedded in every corner. Paris is prettier, Florence sweeter, Vienna greater, New York grittier, in my humble opinion, but London’s art culture is within its guts. There’s an artistic urgency here that I’ve never quite felt anywhere else. It’s overwhelming, really. The sheer number of vintage shops, independent music shops, cooky designer products shop, art galleries and art schools and art bakeries and art-this and art-that, is mind-numbing. I never really considered myself to be a small town girl, but ma’, we certainly ain’t in Kansas no more!

Here are just some of the cool places to look for, like, cool stuff I've managed to take in:

• magma: I never quite know where it is located, or exactly how to get there as all the times I’ve stumbled upon it I was lost. But it’s in Soho, and if there’s only one thing I learned here is that every road leads to somewhere awesome in Soho. The flagship is a bookstore that carries cooky arty/design gems I’d all buy if I had the money, while a few steps down the road you’ll find one filled with a buncha cool cards, gadgets and decorations. Utterly useless stuff, yes, but my, how joy-inducing!
  
  
• fopp: Again, another awesome store in Soho. Originally a Glaswegian retailer, it provides books, music, dvds for a fraction of what one of those Big Megatstore offers. One can spend days there rumaging through their floors for big names or dodgy elitist shit. It’s like an music geek’s wet dream and it makes me slightly regret I grew up with Wham! instead (damn you, Big Sister, damn you! *fist to the sky*)
  
  
• Grant & Cutler: Biggest European bookstore I know, right behind Oxford Street, that carries French books. They have piles and piles of books over shelves stocked to the electrical-wired open ceiling. It's neither corky nor pretty like some other smaller bookstore I’ve seen but it feels like one of those school libraries where I used to skip classes to linger in and spent literally hours reading about authors whose works were covered in the same lectures I was incidentally missing. It makes me all warm & gooey in the inside.
  
  
• Marks & Spencer: I get it. I really do. M&S is not just another big chainstore– it’s a wonderful chainstore. And all because of their rasberry & marscapone cake. *drools* For some 4 quid, you can easily ascend to crusty sugar heaven and would pledge undying devotion to its makers with just one bite even though one bite is surely not enough. Unfortunately, others seem to have found this glorious treasure as it is rarely on the shelf for long. *pouts* Even so, like Tom Cruise, I can’t possibly keep such a holy revelation to myself, so just make sure to save me a piece if you ever get your hands on it (no forks needed, thank you).
  

Hm. Speaking of which, why not skip right along to…

3. Eating Until the Fat Lady Blows Up

The consensus seems to be that English food is shite. And I wouldn’t argue much against that had my stomach not been a rubbish bin. Also, it is not so much all English food that are a tad below international par – its pies and cakes and biscuits are absolutely divine.

What is quite special here however, in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, is its gastronomical variety. Aside from Chinese & Vietnamese food (oh! My kingdom for a decent phở!), Asian food here, particularly Korean & Japanese, is freakin’ awesome! And if you feel like some Indian, any restaurant you encounter every two buildings can beautifully accomplish the task, let me tell you.

On the European front, a south Italian restaurant, arancina, offers cuisine that makes me drool sexily with longing every two hours, offering seasonal seafood and pasta, a whole range of sweet creamy goodies and friendly local staff. There’s also this belgian bistro I’ve recently found, Le Pain Quotidien, that serves the best in house coffee with fresh cold meats & veggie platters, all served with homemade bread and is, with free internet, my semi-permanent residence.

It wouldn’t surprise me if I needed to buy an extra plane ticket to fit the excess fat I’ve gained when I’ll fly back home. Luckily, I can’t be bothered. Specifically because my brain is busy concentrating on chewing, digesting and making more room for more food. I heart my brain.

4. “There’s nowhere like home.” (Especially if it’s cheap.)

I’ve moved out from The Oestrogen House. Not without a little regret, I must admit, as for the last few weeks I was there, some of the girls have managed to melt my cold barren heart. But when mice moved in, I figured no warm fuzzy human feelings can over-compensate my over-priviledged sissy repulsion towards rodents nesting in my bathroom and fled the fuck out of there.

I am now living in walking distance of Notting Hill, Holland Park, Kensington Gardens and Portobello Road, with every convenience food shop and restaurants I’ve ever craved for right around the corner. And I’m paying a lot less. And it’s in zone freaking 1. It’s freaking awesome.

So awesome, in fact, you feel like there has to be a drawback somewhere…

Like, I don’t know, living with a cat. When you are acutely allergic to cats. But, with the pros being what they are, I figured one just needs to hoover a bit more often and buy more tissue paper. Or, you know, kick said cat.

Or then again, you discover you are highly propelled to kick instead the person you live with, who just so happens to share not only an enclosed tiny space but also a bed and a romantic liaison with you...

Would that be rather inappropriate, you reckon?

No, really.

5. The arh-gn-gn-gn-gnargh Relationship Thing.

Somehow, all the above has blinded me to the fact that (a) I seem to have acquired what some might refer to as a Boyfriend *shudders*, and (b) I am now bewilderingly living with said Boyfriend *gags*.

Yes, I’ve moved in with the boy who was featured in such previous episodes as this, this, and this one too, and that one as well, and ouh! let's not forget this one! Which means, in addition to all the benefits already mentioned, I get the luxury to see him and his strange boy-habits, day in, day out, twenty-four-freaking hours a day, and somehow still want to shag him senselessly. A feat, dear virtual friends, that test the very limits of my sanity.

We have now passed beyond the Farting Stage, Shaving Stage and Having Sex Every Other Three Seconds (Or However Long It Is For Him To Go Again, Ahem) Stage. Frankly, I quite enjoy where we are – the amount of effort, time and energy I am saving from keeping my body primmed and proper can probably get me through a doctorate degree in Astrophysics.

Or, you know, cleaning.

*tears hair out*

Okay.

I. Am. A. Clean-freak.
I know this. This is me taking responsibility, okay?

Great. Can we get to the part where he drives me fucking insane?

By putting the cheese grater back in the cuboard, full of cheese on it?
By covering the stove with dried sticky tomato slices right after I cleaned it?
By piling the rubbish bin so high it becomes the fucking ninth world wonder?
By discarding bottle caps and lids god knows where so the kitchen emits a cheesy-garlic-ketchup smell mixed with cat food?
By leaving my body towel by the bath tub – WHERE THE CAT GRAZES BY?

I mean, seriously. SERIOUSLY! THE MAN IS OUT TO KILL ME!!!

*takes a deep breath*

Right. So maybe he’d have some darn good reasons to plot my demise, and sure, these are relatively 'little things'****.

But... aren’t these 'little things' just ramifications of how he behaves generally? That when push comes to shove, he just doesn’t fucking care enough to do anything? And instead, just bows down, defeatedly, gives up, looks the other way? Out of laziness? That when it comes down to it, he doesn’t have what it takes?

…For what?

...For me?

... How the hell did I become this kinda girl? The kind of girl who needs – demands! – that Love, with the proverbial capital ‘l’, should be proven, challenged & conquered? To transcend somehow? How did I, the girl who is weary of relationship and all its by-products, have such naïve romantic beliefs about ‘Love’? And more importantly, what if my love for him isn’t unconditional?...

*rocks back & forth in dark corner*

Um, yes. All this brought about by ‘little things’. Like him not doing the dishes. Or leaving his dirty socks on my clean undies*****. Neurotic much?




And then... he’d say something like, ‘Should I start tap dancing now?’, and I melt with laughter like a pile of dungshit in an overheated oven, all over again.




I hate relationships******.






* So when I said 'jiffy' I forgot tot take into account that I was also A Lazy Bum. Apologies. I know you were all anxiously biting down your nails, painfully awaiting for an encompassing update. To pardon myself, click here. Carry on.
** Nope, that’s still not getting old, I’m afraid! *thumbs up*
*** Speaking of which, I am weaning myself down to now 35mg per week!! Huzzah! It’s been a long & winding road, but that’s another post for another very fickle day...
**** And there are other 'little things' too – little things that my brain must erase from memory immediately as to keep itself from sucking itself dry out of sheer mercy. (Shush. What do you mean, do I exagerate a bit?)
***** No, but I mean, that’s enough to make me gauge my eyes out.
****** In a ‘not really, not even a little, not at all kinda way’. (Help. Me.)

maybe this christmas

Yes, friends and foes, real ones and virtual ones, even indecisive ones sitting on the fence who will fall to a particular side in one defining moment, it is undeniably that time of year again! And, being away from home for the first time evah for Christmas, without snow nor loud screaming from my beloved family gatherings to comfort myself, I shall shamelessly withdraw into Full Corny Mode, complete with Slow-Motion-Lashes-Battering Kisses, Dancing Under The Mistletoe and Gazing Through The Misty Window While Nat King Cole Sings In The Background. *grins*

And my generosity is such, as these times commercially pound into us, that I extend these uncomfortably warm fuzzy feelings to all of yee. May you be with those who appreciate your gaggingly silly tendencies & tastes in corniness and/or false cynicism & debauched relationship with Sir Alcohol – brandy or otherwise.

A round of drunken kisses and awkward hugs to all!

fixer le ciel

Through the midst of cigarette smoke and barbecue, buses and cabs splash their way down the drenched road while trendy Londoners quickly clonk their way on the busiest corner of the city. As I take a sip from my coffee, the wind picks up, splattering droplets of rain on my right cheek.

That’s when it hits me.

For the first time since I’ve been here, I feel at peace. I have a little job I enjoy, a friend to join in some much welcomed drinks later on and a warm bed to greet me in a forgiving embrace when I stumble back...

“Is it weird that I miss Friday night TV with you?” buzzes in my left pocket.

Oh. And there's also a wonderful boy who makes me smile with longing.

It’s moments like these, I think to myself.

Moments like these....

fleur de saison

À Montréal, l'hiver.

À Londres, soleil...




[n.b. photo de kimberly blue.]

piste 7

What better way, may I ask, to lift one's spirit up than to spend one's birthday enjoying the pretentious decadence of High Tea, seeing three exhibitions (one of which reignited childhood glees while another reminded why art can kick so much arses), getting giddily tipsy with el vino while a wonderful man prepares one's dinner, gorging oneself silly with said wonderous cookery goods, engaging in lively discussions and shagging 'til the wee hours of the morning, hm?

(Oh. And there was chocolate cake. Obviously.)

I know. Suddenly, turning A QUARTER OF A CENTURY OLD doesn't sound so daunting.

(Much.)

our faces split the coast in half

For the few weeks that I have been in Britain, I have (in chronological order):

• Bathed with centipedes;
  
  
• Moved five times;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been stung by a wasp – twice, in the same day;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been punched in the face in front of my flat, woke up in the hospital with a concussion, memory loss, smashed sinuses and a broken cheekbone, wondering why people here say ‘hospital’ without putting an article before and impressed that I was able to text on my mobile without any spelling mistakes;
  
  
• Spent two nights in [the] hospital with a polite little senile woman pleadingly crying to go home and a lady who wants to get in contact with Whitney Houston’s aunt who was going to tell her where Heaven is;
  
  
• Moved again. For reasons unnecessarily undisclosed;
  
  
• Met The Sweetest of Men;
  
  
• Been hit by a car and sent flying to the ground with a scratch on my elbow and a sore bum, incredulously;
  
  
• Understood the comfort of this whole Tea-And-Biscuits-In-The-Afternoon Thing;
  
  
• Actually liked a cat;
  
  
• Requestioned my entire self-concept [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Shagged so much my abs ache and legs can barely hold themselves up;
  
  
• Become comfortably accepting in deluding and ignoring my Fear of Relationships;
  
  
• Had a panic attack [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Quit two jobs;
  
  
• Been wondering for the 472nd time what the fuck I am doing here;
  
  
• And really hoping that all my bad karma has been paid for...
  

... And how have you been?

god put a smile upon your face

I GOT MY VISA!!

*does a happy dance*




[n.b.: ...to Mark Ronson, of course. Join me?]

falling slowly

After three weeks of grisly dismemberment, murderous spirits and bloody ghosts that the ever lovely Fantasia Festival delivers to some of us gory geeks, it should be of no surprise that a mushy musical about love and love songs would be like a sweet balm over a fantastic gaping wound. Or rather (with less kinkee innuendos - ahem), a beautiful sunset after the rain.

Incidentally, it is also the sort of movie no one I know would watch with me [had I actually asked…], thus making it in the same shot the Perfect Solo Cinema Viewing. Huzzah! And to the yearning of my silly soppy heart, was it ever! Armed with a well hidden grande double-chocolate chocolate chips Frappathing-a-mashling, a bag of lollies and aircon that would make Santa feel at home, I swayed and swooned with every melodious note and foreign accent it touchingly offered. Oh, virtual beloveds, to compare it to the other summer musical number would be like comparing Audrey Hepburn to Anna-Nicole*. Part modern day 'musical', part 'classic' love story, part intimate documentary, Once is of delectable tenderness, subtle sweetness and shy cheerfulness whipped up in hopeful nostalgia – everything that makes life… not that shitbad after all. Without any horns nor pretensions...

Like finding a lost childhood photograph.
Or a shadow on a sweltering summer day. And a warm blanket when it snows.
The sound of winds racing through leaves. The taste of coffee in the morning**.
Or a lover’s touch in the hollow of your back.

What can I say. Hormones finally got the best of me.




...Which could explain why I may be harbouring an unhealthy innocent little crush at the moment....*blush* And like all crushes, it is strictly unrequited and will result to nothing. Obviously. It’s just been a while since I’ve crushed on a boy, is all... Un boaille aux cheveux d’encre et des paroles qui soufflent dans les voiles de mon éternelle adolescence....

And it feels oddly... nice.

*giggles like a silly schoolgirl*




*This, in no way, is to denigrate Miz Smith (the same goes for Hairpray, of coures). God knows she will be dearly missed, at the very least, as a great entertainer. May you rest in peace, Anna, and bless Miz Spears in her stellar effort to replace you.

** Of what I can remember! *cries* Eight days and going strong, people! Soon, my love, soon we may be reunited once more!...

1 2 3 4

It’s hot, it’s sunny, it’s humid, it’s summer. Seriously.

It’s sweating, softening, sweltering and scolding away my heart. I’m too busy dissolving to care.

I can no longer struggle, I’m speaking in tongues, I’ve bought shorts.

My defenses are shatterred, my chest slashed aghast. Pass it some ice.




Or simply more of this. Oh, be still my speeding heart!...

toxic

[Meanwhile, somewhere in the far-end corner of her sophisticatedly complicate caboose…]

Like, Oh-MyGAWD, I am, like, so IN LOVE with this site! (Which I’ve found via an equally lovesome blog whose fabulous author I’ve shot-gunned into becoming made my new virtual friend! *giggles in teeny stalker fashion*.) There are so many morbidly yummy pictures, sexy gore & glossy queasiness there – it’s eye kink heaven, I tells ya (Who Killed Bambi*, that is, not the Blog You Will Go See (whose kinkiness, for the record, I know nothing about))! From high-fashion shots to cut-up dolls, twisting through truly dark photography, I was overwhelmed with both awkward awesomeness and inspired excitement while scrolling through its pages. Amidst everything going around lately, I have forgotten how good it feels to create and/or being submerged by purdhy things!

Which is why I got myself these:

My baby.
(Don't mind my garden hat. ...What?)

I finally understand those city slickers who walk around with shades all day even when the sun is nowhere in their Can’t-Be-Bothered-To-Look-Upon-Anything-Less-Beautiful-Than-Their-Poncefirous-Selves sight. It is not bc they are snooty little wankers - no! They're just simply Vain Whores In Love With Inanimate Objects! And I’ve never felt so welcomed! Oh, I want to sleep with them! (The sunglasses, not my fellow VWILWIO. Tch.) *sighs longingly*

In other related luscious consumerist news, Fantasia is coming to town! *kung-fu high-kicks* And this year, my dearly beloveds, I is ready! No more of that waiting until the last possible minute to get tickets and thus having to queue in a line that goes around the block fifteen times, and definitely not counting on someone else (who may or may not be My Big Cuz) to buy tickets only to be ditched for the promise of noodles and losing our betrothed seats. No sir-ree Bob! This year, we’re dorking it up in a big monstrous [1954, of course!] Godzilla way and getting them early online to then go hours ahead before the screened events for good seats. Hopefully, the Geek Gods shall deem us worthy and allow some gory good times to be had. Yeah!

Hm...

As this feels more and more like a commercialised capitalist confession, I might as well admit to my new shameful pleasure: Age of Love - *shudders & gags* - NBC’s new realitv summer hit that asks the very original question ‘Does age matter?’ by throwing the I-Forgot-How-Deliciously-Looking-After-All-These-Years-Absconded tennis player Mark Philippoussis in a ‘social experiment’ where he hopes to find true love (Ahahahahaha...) with women in their 40s (respectfully named the 'cougars', FYI) who, unknowingly at first, are 'competing' with girls in their 20s (or aka the 'kittens'!). *shudders & gags some more* Oh! But it’s sooo bad it’s good! It’s even badder as you watch it, man! The bachelor is depicted as this sweetly redeemed playah (by which is proven when he bought a puppy to be with on Valentine's Day (...aaahahahahahahahahaha!!)) and a hot sport star (in the 'inexistent-in-all-big-tournament-scene-for-the-past-few-years' sense), while the twennies are stereotypically crazy insecure catty skanks (represent, sistahs!). As for the 'cougars', I hear you anticipatively ask?... Rockin' babes who are successful and - *gasps* - fun! And – canyoubelieveit?! – SEXY!

Seriously, they are incredibly hawt (even though some may seem to have been familiar with Monsieur Bistouri a few times over). My absolute favorite so far (bc, of course, one can only thoroughly enjoy this kind of divine shite when there is a favorite to root for) is a 42-year-old photographer with a no-bullshit attitude, who, incidentally, begs me to ask her simultaneously as I’m bitching at her 20-year-old 'competition', "Why, dear god, WHY must you go on a television show like this looking for 'love'? Seriously?! SHOULD YOU NOT KNOW BETTER?!!"

It’s slowly sucking all the hope I had of growing older & wiser**. Not to mention my self-esteem. Yet... I can’t. Turn. AWAY. Damn you, Television Lords, damn you!

I need to take a shower now.




* This title particularly strikes a cord with my childhood sensibilities as I remember being completely devastated when I watched Bambi’s mother being killed. Years later [i.e. last year], foolishly thinking I was now older & harder to view it again, I suddenly burst out crying as the poor deer hopped around the silent snow crying out "Mama, we made it, mama! We made it!... Mama?" *tries to hold back tears* My 3-year-old cousins were most certainly not impressed.

**That song lies, I tell you, it lies!

the good, the bad and the queen

Just crashed back into my comfortable clean fluffy bed with a facial after some five hours of carpooling [insert deep moaning of satisfaction], and already here for your long awaited hearts, I know, are some pictures from my few moments of sobriety. Because I’m considerate like that.

Not China Town.

Could you hear the angels sing?





... slurrrrrp.



I kinda blacked out My batteries died after this.



But there were mostly lots of this I presume:


And this:


And a bit of this:
[pictures from enkidu.netfirms.com]
Yeah. My camera and I always miss out on the fun.
*pouts*

To be noted however that I did not get intimately acquainted with any toilet bowl during my off-camera performances nor did I want to behead The Brother-In-Law even once (there was perhaps a moment where I did want to slap him, but t’was definitely not a Backhand Slap, so hurrah!), and no pants were ripped apart nor any stomach unladylikely exploded during the ingestion of so much delectably awesome foodies.

I know. My Sainthood application is already in the mail*.




* Just don’t mention I spent over my very idealistic 20$ weekend budget on some smokin' cute shades (WITH MY EXPENSIVELY DISCRIMINATORY BLIND-MOLE PRESCRIPTION INCLUDED!) for only the THIRD of the what I’d normally pay elsewhere! Them crazy Chinese, I tells ya! Am now left but to wait - with utmost patience - until they arrive here in a week. And with that, I’m back on the Sainthood list.

l’endomètre rebelle

Is there a better way to start celebrating the Saint Patron's day of oh great French Canadia than to clean my bathroom? I think not! Have now clearest (and cleanest! *winks like smug salesman*) conscience to enjoy three days of drinking!

In Toronto.
Where heaps of cheap Oh Sweet Nectar Of Gods awaits.
Eh-pip-pip-houra!






Do you think I will get shot if I scream out 'Vive le Québec, tabarnak de criiiiiiissssssse!' from a speeding car in the middle of Yonge Street?



[n.b. My bathroom is so clean you can lick it. Seriously. C'mon, i know you want to.]

ibi dreams of pavement (a better day)

I was going to write a long, whingy post filled with filthy words beginning like 'fucose' and rhyming with 'clucking' concerning the current state of public transportation in the fair city I live, namely, but not excluded to, the fact that it is, once again - since 2003! - ON STRIKE, which means that between the hours of 9 a.m. & 3h30 p.m., and 6h30 p.m until late-enough-no-one-gives-a-shit, there are no buses and/or metros anywhere, and how despite being what one might call a liberal [if I was ever bothered enough to care] with a leftist inclination, who is really all for unions, the little people, the blue-collars, plaid-collars and dirty-unwashed-collars, and who, by all means, comes from a Stick-It-To-The-Man school of philosophy (I was educated along the lines of the French after all (much to the desolation of a parent with a particular distaste for any form of "commie sympathies")), nothing would please me more however than to see the instigators of this so-called "desperate legal action", i.e. the lovely Mechanics & Maintenance Workers of the STM, who earn a salary of 50,000$ (premium & advantages not included) per year, shoving their whiny little pie-holes up their lazy fat arses.

BUT I am going to write instead about how, without dirty old buses and subway trains that are delayed every second day, on every second line, every day, on at least one line bc of 'bip-bip-beeeep' TECHNICAL REASONS, I am able to get soaked in the sun and breeze a little more as I walked to the bank this morning and truly enjoyed how lovely my neighborhood is. Yes, yes. Ladies & gents, I walked. The entire twenty-five minutes it took. Which depending upon age & technique, could pass as a form of exercise, oui? And I liked it! I really liked it! An allergy pill popped in, I strolled down the sidewalks draped by the occasional cool shadows of beautifully imposing maple trees, children's laughing & giggling breaking between the soft suburb silences, little Italian mamas sweeping their porch, fixing their gardens and yelling in what I can only hope as sweet insults to their husbands. It was marvellous!...

So, dearest Mechanics & Maintenance Workers of the STM, you may cease your lying around complaining about your sorry exploited plight 'working' as long as you please. T’is like water off me back! Which, incidentally, I solely give to the city counsellors in their firm stance of Not Giving In Until You Lazy Arses Actually Provide A Real Service To Start Out With, You Spoilt Arrogantly Idiot Wankers*.

Now, I must take your leave, dear gentle folks, as my bedtime is fastly approaching. I have a bus to catch downtown tomorrow morning. Goodnight.




*Now see, i shall have to loathe you even more as you made me side with The Man. Curse you!

p.s. Hmm... Of all the inane things i've written about in the past, i seem to be dithering a little here, wondering whether to post this or not... Funnily enough, i feel as if i am betraying & stabbing the little Socialist in me and it makes me feel all queasy 'bout it... Huh. The thing is, i'm well aware that with inflation going constantly up as it tends to do, etc, etc, while salaries pretty much stagnate, there are very hard working folks out there who suffer in consequence. That's why i'll always support and fight for unions, but the truth is, if we keep this in context, these STM workers specifically are really detestable bullies!... It's a little like communism, innit? Great in theory but it pretty much shits up the dog's arse in practice. So... As ill-informed and hormone-driven as it may be, i've decided to post this anyway as it's, well, how i feel. And it's my blog. In all its moral and grammatical downfall. *double thumbs up*

you are my sister

We were lazying around on my sister’s king size bed watching some re-runs of Spiderman cartoons. (Or was it UFC: Ultimate Fighting Championship? Didn’t St-Pierre lose? Or did I dream/hallucinate that as well?... Mmm. St-Pierre....)

“Can you please stop doing that?”
“Whagh?”, i came out from my snot-filled haze.
“That thing you’re doing with your mouth”, she whinged.
“… Gnmean bweading?!....”
“Yes. You are going to make me sick.”

Really, how can one not love her?
And love her I do.
Except when I hate her.
Obviously.

It’s pretty common to have these love/hate relationships amongst siblings, is it not? And quite healthy, i like to think... What is more, i find them particularly interesting, with its own special complex set of rules and demands and expectations. Though I understand that sometimes they unfortunately don’t end very well and are left on the cutting room floor, i’m the kind of gal who likes to explore these relationships to death. And though my sister & i don’t always like each other, we have thus always remained very close. Also, because our mum has incessantly pounded into our heads that we are forever binded to one another, whether we want to or not.

To tell the truth, I don’t really have any recollection of her at all for the first part of my life. We used to live in a small three bedroom apartment back then, in the “New Projects” where the first generations of immigrants were dumped housed. We* didn’t complain though, it was more than anything I think we’d expected. I believed growing up listening to those stories of when they had first arrived as exciting & jubilating adventures. Of course there were hardships but to this day my parents still recall them as ‘utterly joyous’. They thought it was the top shit and in lots of ways it was! My earliest and only memories of my first home were being surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins who’d all somehow took turn living with us in that small rental, and with whom I’d spend my days & nights playing. I remember there was constant noise. Vivid whispers over pots and pother in the tiny kitchen. Songs of hope and home over constant shouting. Laughing and giggling and cheering.

When we finally moved further East, into our very own house, I was 4 years old. Suddenly away from everyone else, i remembered that, oh, right, i had a sister to play with. And play we did - if you count crushing every fibre of my self-esteem and sanity to a muddy pulp as playing, sure! Great fun, that was!... You see, my sister, though the spitting image of a beautiful little angel, was also a ruthless psychological tormentor. And a very good one at that (I blame those first obligatory years under the communist regime - zero to three years of age are the most formative in a child’s life, you know, and they did a dandy job on training her into one of their best secret police.) And because she was older, and our culture demanding utter respect for our elders, she took it as a licence to order me around and thus i became her slave from the tender age of 4 to 6. ‘Get me a soda’, ‘Plump my pillows’, ‘Massage my feet’, ‘Bring me food’, ‘Scratch my back’, ‘Turn left’, ‘Turn right’, ‘Stay put – Ha! I didn’t say Simon says *whips*!'

Okay. So there wasn't any actual whipping. But the treating me like a dog thing? TO-TALLY happened. And because my moon sign is the Dog, she thought that was huhfuckinglarious. Whenever i dared refuse, she’d calmly throw me a condescending look and slowly reiterate that if I “disobeyed” her, she wouldn’t play with me anymore, which also included talking or acknowledging my general existence, and then begin counting to three. Slowly. Letting. The fear. Sink. In. *squints eyes in a vengeful fury*

Another one of her favorite games was to make invisible rats and/or crocodiles appear on the ground, keeping me thus paralysed with fear and stuck to wherever it was I was sitting (right, so I wasn’t a very bright kid had a wild imagination. You’d think that'd be a first warning sign of my mental health, now wouldn't you? Alas, no.) When I got a little older (marked by my responding to her counting to three threat with “One, two, three – CACA!” and storming off), she somehow convinced me that she had mistakenly cut off my penis when I was a wee baby and sewed back the remaining flesh best she could. I huffed it off as being the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard yet secretely wondered if this could somehow be possible.... Until I was thirteen, as I was the latest amongst my friends to be hit by Miss Flo, I actually thought that she had turned me into some freak o'nature and scientists were going to take me away (wild imagination, I tells ya! Fuelled by a recent viewing of E.T., okay?! It was scarring!... Pah!).

But sure, that was all 'fun & games'. Water under the bridge (until the day i can unleash my revenge onto her unborn child! mouahahahah! ahem... ). The thing that truly bothered me however was that, until quite recently, no one else were witnessed to this side of her. To everyone, she is this perfectly demure good girl who had to endure my shenanigans! ME! (Oh, alright, so in all fariness, she kind of was - ...i mean, i wasn't exactly a saint to live with either.)

You see, she defies all these categorizations, my sister. She isn’t quite your typical good Asian kid despite her exterior as she doesn't really care to follow the Asian crowd and its warped societal conventions; she is very conservative yet has a most foul sense of humour; she is every bit of a lady but loves racing against boys, and robots (that's 'loves robots', not 'racing against robots'. Although that would've been pretty wicked cool...); you can't call her a tomboy either for she is a sentimental sop; she is hopelessly anti-social but can be utterly & genuinely good; she is a very practical & pragmatic woman yet yelps on the top of her lungs when I hit her, and rationalise my defensive retaliation by pinching me back (PINCHING! If there's any form of physical violence i LOATHE it's pinching! Cowardly and hypocritical, it is! Argh!) But because of how she looks, high school boys would swoon over her thinking she was a perfect ice queen while others believe she was simply angelic.

(Oh, and the answer is no. I can hear some of you sneering behind that wall of nanobites and liquid cristals and flesh and bones (yes! you in the corner! i see you too!), and the answer is no - I was never jealous of her. Honestly. The only time I ever remotely felt 'robbed' was when she moved away to University. She is more of a homebody than I was and didn’t want to leave. I thought she was insane. I had dreams of going away since I was five years old and there she was, living my dream. Before me. So there. Now, let us never talk about this again. I was 12.)

My sister is just an amalgam of things that very few could actually see, that most blamed on me being 'erratic' (pfff). That's what's infuriating. But this is not about naming her flaws. Besides, that would be a list too long to post anyway… Par exemple:

1. She can never admit she is wrong.
2. She has a piercingly annoying condescension forever embedded in her tone. And in her eyes.
3. She can be quite judgemental.
4. She asks the same question over and over and over and over…. And then finishes off by patronizingly asking, ‘Are you sure?’
5. She has listening problems, especially aggravating for:
   a) she cuts conversations - any conversations - whether i am talking to her, or to someone else.
   b) she is not interested in what you are saying [even though she expects you to be interested into the insane things she likes]
6. She continuously insists on pronouncing 'Dido' as 'Diddo', referring to U2’s The Edge as The Hammer [cf. #1].
7. She would come into my freshly cleaned room for no apparent reason and leave a trail of her monstrous fart behind [although, admittedly, her farting prowess demands nothing less than pure admiration]
8. She nags.
9. She is completely oblivious of others’ feelings sometimes. Often. [cf #5]
10. She is anal & averse to change. (I mean, sure, if nothing is wrong why fix it, I hear you ask [in what i’m sure is a very much less annoying tone than hers], but, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, she still has the SAME haircut for THIRTY YEARS! And why, sweet Jesus, why must i resort to harassment, bribes, abuse and threats for her to try on a perfectly beautiful orange sweater when she INSISTS that i come shopping with her FOR MY INPUT?! Gah!)

And that's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

Where was i?
Oh, right.

Very early on, it seemed pretty clear that I could never fill her shoes. I was too messy, too loud, too clumsy, too erratic & extreme to adorn her glass slippers. Glass slippers with metal caps. To this day, I’m not sure if I embodied that bratty mess of a girl to escape being compared to her or I truly was like that. It’s all very interesting to me indeed.... Because during the worse moments of our relationship, when I harboured the thought of never speaking to her again, I also know without a shadow of a doubt how much of her was in me. And as much as I try to cut her off, I simply cannot.

When I was 16, I stopped talking to her for four months after she took a look at my made-up face, sneered and contemptuously asked “Where are you going?”... (Okay, fine, so you had to be there, i suppose. And hormoning like a 16-year-old girl. Humour me here.) I'd just always felt that she was undermining me, as if she was above, better, that she had a free pick about my decisions, as if she was my mother. And with all due cultural respect aside, there was this constant belittling tone underneath her questions. Because she didn’t wear make up, because she didn’t 'hang out' with her friends, because she thought rock n' roll was 'immature' & 'impressionable', because she couldn’t understand why I wasn’t like her, she treated me like a frivolous fool (the fact that I probably was one is beside the point here). And try as I may, she never listened. She never understood. So I stopped talking altogether. For four months. My mum went into Despair Mode and berated me for my most ungrateful behaviour towards my big sister. I thought this might get her attention. Ah, belle adolescence!...

When I was 21, right before my second mental breakdown, I had another big fight with her and resorted to the silent treatment once more. I don’t quite remember what it was about now. I simply recall the fight became a convenience as I was withdrawing from everyone and figured it’d help them get used to my absence anyway. When I finally came out of it, one of the first things I did was to tell her everything. And everything was a lot for me. Everything was what I had tried to contain all these years from everyone. Even now. All the good, the bad, the ugly and the silly. I told her about me. And she did exactly what I had always honestly believed she would.

She loved me.
She simply loved me.

It took me all of that, all those years of fearing and pondering and doubting to implode and have nothing left to lose in order to finally open up. To her. Because I have always wanted my big sister to know. Sure, we still fight once in a while/quite often over little stupid things, most of them we start just for kicks, like all siblings do. But out of anyone I have ever known, she’s the only one I can always fall on. Who would always be there, for better or worse. To pull me out, kicking or screaming. To understand and to comfort, laughing or crying. She knows me better than I’d like to admit and more than she can ever realise. And though she is not my mother, and rather awkward with words and ‘expressing her feelings’, she is my protector, my Dorkout Mate, my Perfect Murder Partner, my best friend and the only person who can understand what it is like to be my mother’s daughter.

I had a dream some time ago where my sister had killed someone. A monk, actually. A Buddhist monk. And I took the blame for her. Not because I owed it to her, not because it was a 'noble' thing to do, not because my parents had asked me to (they didn’t – now wouldn’t that have given me a few extra hours of therapy? Ha! Thank goodness for that!...). I just remember thinking when she told me about the murder, ‘Fuck, why the hell did she have to go and kill someone?!’. Because I simply knew what that would mean. It was natural for me to do what I did. Because... what would the alternative be? Because I cannot let her take a fall. Because she is really that much better than I am. Because despite all her piercingly annoying habits, she is the kindest person I know. Because she is my big sister. And someone’s gotta stand up for her. Even in a dream.

And yes, because I love her.
To bits, to pieces, to atoms and quartz, with undying gratitude.
Even when I hate her.
Surprisingly.**

Which is why it pains me to no end that she is married to Biggest Twat This Side Of The Saint-Laurence. But that is another post for another very feckle day.

Right. Am an innate knob.

* I say 'we' rather loosely seeing as i am technically not conceived yet, though like to consider that i'd enjoyed quite a lot from the comfort of my mum's ovaries.

** Just don't tell her that. Knowing her the way i do, she'd completely hold this information against me. And she'd cry. She's a sensitive, this one. She cried to Sailor Moon.

china pig

When I was growing up, my hands-down top favorite holiday was Têt, or more commonly known as the Chinese Lunar New Year. More than Christmas, more than Halloween, more than my own birthday or the last day of school (which is, of course, of 'Holiday' status in any young impressionalbe little mind) I would anxiously wait for it to come and wonder why it couldn’t make up its mind and stick to one fixed day already.

There were all these traditional little rituals surrounding it: the bidding farewell to the Three Kitchen Gods the week before, who were believed to live in every household’s oven as to keep a keen eye on us during the year & report back to the Heavens (and who, once away, I always thought could not see us anymore, and therefore licensed everyone to act in a most unexemplary way, although unusually, I noted no such increase in crimes or misbehaviours during that week. Yes, the Asian Guilt is that powerful…); the big cleaning of the house to receive the New Year in stride; the picking of clementines from the pagoda tree, upon which is delivered our yearly fortune; the well-wishing to our elders who’d then give us in return little red envelops filled with monetary good luck (also my only steady source of income from the age of 7 to 16).

The family gatherings during Têt were particularly filled with craziness. Gambling, laughing and giggling and lots of screaming. We'd always fight for food, or to get ahead in line to wish my eldest aunt a good year (and really for the biggest envelop. Ahem), or be last with my sister because we’d never know what to say to our own parents (we’re not too good at expressing our feelings, always wanting to cry, y'see [from resignation and/or despair… Bah! I kid, I kid! Of course, nothing but love and gratitude, mum!... hahahah... I will be struck by lightning one of these days. Seriously.]). And then, of course, there is The Food.

Shrimp & Lotus Salad.
Sweet & Spicy.

Imperial Rolls.
Aren't they just perrrfect?

Assortment of fresh meat.
Best with lots of beer.
Aye.

Fried Tofu with lemongrass.
Or, The Only Tofu I Eat.

[So Good I'm Salivating All Over My Keyboard] Quails.

The traditional Square Sticky Rice Cake.

Almond cake.
Bite size.
Bloody brilliant.

Soursop candy. Heavenly

And My Absolute Favorite...
Chewy Mung Bean Rice Balls.
(Gooey, gingery and oh so gooooooood.)

How convenient it should be the Year of the Pig, innit? And there are heaps more too, but as it is fairly impossible to take pictures and have to win the fight for the last piece of fried lobster tail at the same time, i had to prioritize, you understand. It's a wonder i haven't burst through my new pants already, that's all i've gotta say.

But of all these celebrations, there is one particular reason that makes the New Year the crème de la crème of all holidays. When i was a kid, i used to love watching my mum prepare all the meals and all the minute attention she'd give to each superstitious detail. The gracious beholden humility she'd pray to the Heavens and Earth. To our ancestors... She took it all very seriously, and no matter what mood you were in, or whether you believed in a higher power or the Earth spirit or nothing at all, her attentive devotion was always enough to render a genuine purpose to it all.

And it still does. It is the only time in our household when everyone is completely silent. In a heedful quietness. Peaceful and febrile, ready to welcome the New Year.

When i was a kid, it was also the only time i could stay up past midnight, regardless of whether i had school the next day or not, just so i can be part of it all. It was a family thing. We'd tell eachother the same old stories again, and we'd laugh about it again. And having to be part of it once more, i realise it is still the only time when i feel like that exact same kid. Again. And why it is Reason Why I Love Being Asian #1.

winter wonderland

You know what? I love talking about the weather. Most people think that one talks about the weather in awkward situations, when there is nothing to talk about, but I (perhaps bc I am socially ill-adapted, the reasons are manifolds, really– discuss amongst yourselves) loooove to discuss about the weather, for 1) it is clearly undeniable that the way humans live have completely fucked it up; 2) not only do we impact it but it holds a strong chemical & psychological influence on how a person feels as well; and therefore 3) it insanely affects ME, and everyone knows I am a self-centered egomaniac! T'is a perfect conversation starter! Therefore, i am compelled to mention that for the last two weeks, the weather has had the most exemplary courtesy of being deliciously sunny and/or clear, making us [me] almost forget, and forgive, that Winter had arrived about a month too late. There's now snow squishing below my feet, and the biting cold on my cheeks as i am neatly tucked away in my sizzling red coat stuffed with down to keep me warm [may you rest in peace, baby ducks]. I love it! Walking out in the crisp winter sun is my only upside for waking at 7 o’clock each morning for classes, let me tell you. It’s what makes me [almost – I’m not that insane yet…] forget about the lure of my fabulous bed. (That and coffee, obviously.)

Mmm. Hot coffee in the cold cold dawn… I LOVE IT!

And you know what else I love? Nice people. For some odd reason (perhaps a deep insecurity from a yearning childhood, a desperate cry for compassion, you can discuss this amongst yourself as well – go on, I know you all love to talk about me too), I feel all warm inside when a fellow passenger greats me, or says something nice, or smiles at me, or is just being polite to one another, really. Today, as I was waiting for the bus, this sweet old lady smiled and said to me “I think I might have seen this young lady grow up…”. Uh! How sweet! That she even recognized me at all is a little doubtful but never mind that, I felt like meeting some great-aunt I never knew existed but who always looked out for me. One who would leave me all her belongings once she passed away. That kind of aunt. I’ve always wanted one of those…. Anyway, once on the bus, there was this other old lady (where are they all going so goddamn early in the morning anyway? Is there a secret geriatric meeting to take over the world we don't know about, because who'd be up so early AND aware of such impeding world domination, really?... Note to self: must look into terrorist grannies) who got on, and before anyone else could lazily react properly (i.e. to offer their seat, you heartless brute), this semi-emo teenage boy [who could desperately use a haircut by the way. And a bath as we’re at it. And proper fitting jeans - preferably ones that would not cause infertility, although considering the 'life style' trend he is heading towards, it might be better if he'd be infertile... but i still harbour hope for he] actually stood up for her! Causing my stupid heart to melt right then & there!

I know, forgive, I sound completely daft, but all this really made me giddy. I mean, it’s easy to get annoyed and pissed off at the plethora of bad-mannered, crazy, rude, aggressive folks out there so when one encounters remotely genuine nice gestures, as small as there are, as meaningless as they appear, it seems that the most logical thing to do is to grab on to their fleeting existence....

As I walked out in the snow towards campus, with the sun warming the northern wind hitting my face, I felt completely & joyously alive.

I really love this weather.

it's the most wonderful time

Reasons why Christmas is fantabulous:

• Buying gifts! Did my Christmas shopping yesterday and was TOTALLY into it, picking out prezzies for my mum (a beautilful tweed pencil skirt with a teal sweater - le gorgeous), my sister (penguin themed pjs, undies, socks and huge coffee mug - so nauseatingly cute she'll barf out the damn bird), my cutest petutiest 3-year-old cousin (a box of crayons & a Dora pop-up book), and for another 7-year-old to whom i am his Secret Santa (a beautiful Fables de La Fontaine book, just like the one i used to love). It reminded me how fun it is to really give rather than receive (although receiving is very much the tops as the second point shall demonstrate).
  
  Roaming along the kids section in the bookstore, surrounded by all the colors and glossy covers, i was also whisked back to the time when each penny i saved would propel me towards the nearest book shop where i would deliberate for hours on the one i would take home. There was this collection i remember of ancient myths that i coveted - Egypt, Greek, Roman and Celtic tales (yes, i was about this close to become a Dongeons & Dragons afficionado). Over two years, it had been such a long & hard endeavor to me that i bought the last book out of sheer principle as my literary taste had been captivated by Monsieur Poirot's charming mustache & the Great Agatha by then. That's called devotion, people! I remember how much books meant to me as a kid, when i didn't have Life Obligations to worry about or derail me from it, when i could lounge around and read all day while my friends did their thing. Books were dependable. And they also made me look less of a social inadequate than i actually was/am (ahem). Which is probably why i am now one of those aunts & cousins who will happily shove down a book down any little child's throat at the first sign of weakness. (Also, in case he doesn't appreciate the magic of Les Fables de La Fontaine, well, i'll just have to keep it now, won't i? Hahahahaha!)
  
  Anywho. I have only me Daddio left to buy for now. A challenge that must not be taken lightly as he is one who would not like ANYTHING that he receives yet sulk when he doesn't. Wonderful character, i know. Thank goodness it's something he did not pass down on me!



• Everything i get is now labelled not under 'Another Useless Consumerist Purchase' but neatly wrapped - like everything else - under 'Christmas Gift For Moi!' Behold, so far, these can be found in my stocking:
  
  

Yes. That is a vase. For my Future Flat. I think it's beautiful, okay?






For my Europe Longing Days.





A 'rare collection' of short stories! Hurrah!





...I have not the words...
This will be a GREAT holiday...





• I was going to say 'The Snow' but the little snow that fell has now been replaced with the goddamn rain....Ugh. Carry on, then...



• The nice sales clerks. Yes, i know. Either they are, or i am peculiarly nice, which, in any case, is so much more pleasant to deal with. They are all smiles and strangely patient & indulgent to find gifts with you, laughing with your silly picks for your sister, giggling about ending up buying just for yourself, wishing you a 'Joyeuses Fêtes!' as you leave. It's all just so pleasant! There must be a course or a conference beforehand, of course, and somehow forced upon but it still feels quite nice.



• Making mixed cds. Also known as one of my top Favorite Waisting Time Activity. Now, you all must know that i am a shameless fan of the classics - Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Brenda Lee & the likes, even though they are endowed with the power to cause seizures - but it's also such fun (and a challenge!) to find newer rocking holiday tunes like The Ramones' 'Merry Christmas' & The Ravoenettes' 'Chirstmas Song' to put them all together!
  
  'River' by Joni Mitchell is an absolute must - despite that one is a tad inclined to gulp down an entire bottle of whiskey only to jump off a bridge afterwards - but somehow i've managed to slip it in between 'It's Christmas Time' by what sounds like The Miracles (do correct me if i'm wrong) & 'Rock of Ages', then followed by Sinead O'Connor's 'Silent Night'. Right. Not exactly the cheeriest, is it?... But the cd ends with 'Maybe This Christmas' by Ron Sexsmith, which is really lovely & sweet. With a little pinch of bitter perhaps but still very sweet & more than a bearable listen during these times...



• The Food! Living here, every self-respected food lover's favorite cooking show, À la Di Stasio, is the summum of class, good taste & good food. Josée Di Stasio, the bona fide hostess, is a little like Martha Stewart but less insane. And without all the bows & ribbons & flowers & dresses, anything that might distract from the great FOOD she & her local celebrity guests concoct in her immaculately delicious and warm kitchen. And then, there's the lighting... it makes the pasta shine, the meat glisten, the puddings luscious. She makes me want to cook! Let me write that again. She. Makes. Me. Want. To. Cook. ME. Who considers an omelette as part of her Sophisticated Dish Repertoire. So yes, allow me to tuck that under Christmas Miracle of 2006.
  



• All above reasons to distract me from My Boy Troubles.... *gnaw at cheeks, etc.*

ask

It snowed this weekend! First snow on the first of December. This, to me, is deemed to be a Good Sign. Of what, i do not know yet. But looking outside, i faintly felt a little giddy about it, to be honest. This is what it looked like on Friday morning:


A few hours later, it then turned into this:

(photo courtesy of mister steveyb)

That is ice, in case you can't see. And that's a car underneath the tree, underneath the ice. Also, the powers went out. Welcome to the schizophrenic Canadian Weather!

But, more gloomily, is it a dire omen of things to come? To warn never to trust what one perceived as good too quickly...? Hmm... Thankfully, i don't give a flying fuck! Ting-a-ling-a-ling!

It's been such a long while since i've actually enjoyed a nice Christmas [yes, we are well into December, and i thus allow myself to fully indulge in Holiday chats today. Sue me], and i remember there was a time when i used to looooove singing Christmas carols, to a shameful degree, really, and all the snow, the lights, the trees, the candies, and the giggles. And all the excitement of who's your secret santa, and what to give, and what to eat... Yes, it may be a long time ago, and i was prolly 5, and it's utterly corny, and naïve, and all Christmas is is an excuse to spend and eat a shitload like the aberrent unsatiated pigs that we are but sulking, moaning and be cynical about it all for the next four weeks somehow makes me want to shove my tongue to a frozen pipe and bang my head to it really hard. And believe me, it's not as fun as it sounds. I should know.

So. This season, i solemnly promise to try as hard as i can to be in The Holiday Spirit. There may not be a Christmas tree, there may not be eggnog, hell! there may not even be a whole lot of gifts, but jolly, there will be SINGING!

In related news, look at this hot piece of Santa (courtesy of FIDO cell phone services package for the Holidays):

Had this been the Ol'Saint Nick of my childhood, i would have gladly believed, i tell ya. Hurry down the chimney, indeed....

fall, fall, fall

And this is why i love Fall...