my mathematical mind

Et si ça ne valait pas toute cette peine?

Si à la fin, ça n’arrivait pas juste, que je me retrouvais en déficit?
Tout d’un coup, comme ça, parce que j’ai fait la bêtise de négliger les aptitudes mathématiques et cartésiennes qui m’étaient ethniquement et généalogiquement allouées, par simple rebellion juvénile et/ou refus aveugle du stéréotype, et que j’ai mal calculé le tout, la somme, ma vie?

Si xy = ac, bon.
Ni plus ni moins qu’au départ, tout ce secouage de vieux linge familial et abandon du bonheur enfantin à la recherche du bonheur adolescent pour revenir à peu près où on en était. Un peu con, oui, inutile certes, mais au moins, j’ai pas vraiment perdu grand chose sinon du temps. Mais ça, je m’y suis habituée. Et puis de toute façon, c’est un sujet pour un autre poste un autre jour. Démonstration par procrastination, voilà.

Mais, si xy > a – c , je fais quoi?
Kesseke vous voulez que je fasse avec ce moins de plus? Un vide que j’ai j’avais pas. À garder en tête que j’ai jamais été une grosse fan d’auto-mutilation, je l’enfouis où alors, ça, ce cé? Dans quel trou noir pour que je disparaisse davantage?

Et même si xy < a + c , en surface, semble tout à fait désirable, en ai-je sincèrement de besoin, de cet extra de cul qui me donnerait l’impression d’avoir obtenu quelque chose en plus et, par intrapolation, viendrait m'auto-valider? Ne serait-ce pas de trop? Dans cet âge de surconsommation, de surplus et d’effet de serre, n’ai-je pas appris que plus n’est peut-être pas mieux? Plusse que je puisse digérer, plusse j’épuise. Non, ça’arrive pas. C’est même pas grammaticalement correct. Logiquement, ça s’ent fout carrément. L’important, dirait-on, serait de trouver la valeur des variables. Malheureusement, dû à l’abandon de mes cours d’algèbre passé le collège (pour des raisons puériles mentionnées ci-haut), j’ai oublié désormais comment y procéder*. Merde...

Bon. En attendant, je me réconforte qu’Einstein a coulé ses math de secondaire.

Hiroshima, mon amour.




* Avec tout le trichage que j’ai accommodé au secondaire, on aurait déduit que quelqu’un m’accorderait karmiquement la réponse, crisse... Quelqu’un kekpart me crie qu’it is not the point! Câlisse.

train of thought

I need to do laundry. And the dishes. And wash the bathroom. And a dozen other things too, now that we’re at it. And since J is coming over TOMORROW, I also need to clean the bed in the front room, which could seriously use a good tidal wave (unless I want him to find things his pure pederasting eyes don’t want to see*), yet all I’ve been doing all morning is downing coffee with Pringles (that’s some hell of a breakfast, by the way, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise) and reading blogs.

Shit. It’s 12:15 already. I should’ve been out of the house an hour ago.

We have a wine tasting at work later, which means I would have to haul my ass there earlier than usual. Without pay. Tch.

In normal circumstances I would’ve poked my own eyes out giddily to ‘taste’ wine for free, but with all the things I need to be doing I think I’ll need to pass on this one. The thought is more painful to me than it is mentally healthy.

No matter. I can always drink and clean at the same time – it’s all about multitasking here, people!

Pip pip!




* Luvs, dahling, but there’re just certain things friends don’t need to visualise, ahem...*winks seedily*

little bunny foo foo

Wine is good. Wine is my friend. Makes me happy without the headache. Very good.

Blond Monkey is setting up a blog for his artwork at the moment and for some reason it makes me queasy. The reason might be that, oh I don’t know, he is not exactly aware that I also have a blog. Myself. And when he asks me what I think about layouts, whether I’m familiar with html or not, or if I have blogger account, well, I’m not quite sure what to say.

I end up lying, obviously, because, tch, I’m far from being sane enough to have him know every single thought that farts through my brain. The much that he knows is more than I ever imagined letting anyone have to hold against me as personal information, or believed laudable with such loving indulgence, really. I’d rather not push it. He, however, freely gives me his passwords & pin numbers, and I’m not sure if that makes him utterly naïve or me a complete untrusting biatch. Or both. Opposites attract and all that. Or perhaps birds of the same flock as we are both a little screwed up?

Ooh! Pizza’s here!

Cannot process more coherent thought now.
Am officially drunk.

Buhbye!

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.)

on the radio

**NEWS FROM THE WAR-FRONT**

Oi STOP Still here and kicking STOP Will be back in a jiffy STOP Busy moving in with A Boy and keeping head from imploding STOP Yippies STOP

**END**

don't let me be misunderstood

So for the last three weeks I have been what some might call A Lazy Bum. I, of course, prefer the more technical term of ‘Unemployed (And Not Looking)’. You see, as much as I’d like to think of myself as a worldly young traveller with adventure in her heart and determination in her stare, the truth is I am not. And instead of spending this time going out, seeing the sights and feeling alright, I’ve simply been withdrawing into the world of french cafés and cakes and sleeping in until the the fat lady sings. Which is rather appropriate, really, as I have seriously been dithering whether or not this should be the end to Project London altogether (as opposed to moaning and whinging about it incessantly).

I am living at the moment in a ginormous house with 15 gals. Or as I like to call (as I have been spending all this free time renaming a buncha shits too – that’s just how I roll – shush) The Oestrogen House. I’ve never been in a sorority, it may shock some of you to learn, so this is rather an interesting situation I have stumbled in.

After bumming gratefully staying at a friend's house for two weeks when I came out of the hospital, I desperately needed to vacate the place as soon as possible in fear of abusing my welcome and/or losing the lonesome three remnants of sanity left as I may or may not have ended up somewhat involved in a rather clothesless way with said 'friend' (ahem) all the while recovering from what shall now be referred to as That Being Punched In The Face Thing*. At this precise moment in time, as these things tend to happen, obviously, work was taking on epic proportions and demanded nothing but utmost attention and devotion, which I sadly couldn’t be bothered with anymore, for fuck's sake (quite literally too as I really didn’t have any time left to enjoy any good nakedness time, sleep and/or find this elusive other place to live and save the three flakes of sanity clinging on to my brain - I am a Priorities Girl, you know). Luckily, a lovely girl from work (who, incidentally, also quit the same day I did) suggested I have a look at The Oestrogen House, where she is staying, as it is cheap and “really cool”. Desperate and broke (with an ounce of ‘panicky’ and a pinch of ‘insane’) (but mostly desperate), I figured it would be a satisfactory settlement, in the short term anyway, enough for me to sort things out. But one week turned into two, turned into I-am-quite-settled-in-now. Despite it being The Oestrogen House, filled with girls, oestrogen, giggles and girly stuff.

Like oestrogen.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the girls per se that are causes for concern. Most of them are rather lovely actually, during the limited encounters I’ve had with each of them individually. And I’m the girliest girl I know so being submerged in full 'Girl Mode' is quite comforting and refreshing indeed. It’s just that… well, when you find yourself in a large group that is predominantly composed of one sex – female as the case may be – a particular phenomenon occurs, yes? Without falling into any gender stereotypes - it could have been a group of boys and the same occurrences would arise (except maybe having your hormonal cycle all fucked up (yes, you all needed to know that)) - somehow gossip (read 'talking behind eachother's back') and competition (read 'cattiness') seem to be the plate du jour... Differently executed and manipulated, granted, but they are still quite palpable. Which is odd, for me, you understand, as I've always shied away from any large group, being the antisocial bitch that I am. So after spending extended hours with The Group, I just desperately need to retreat back to my cave room and remain there. Indefinitely. Or until my roommate comes in and begins relating her entire life story to me.

Oh, did I forget to mention it is a roomshare?...

Fortunately, despite the constant chatting, followed by more chatting, Crazy Roommate is, well, utterly crazy and I love her for it. True, there are times where I’d gladly tear my hair in batches from my skull with my own teeth if that would shut her up, but she is the sweetest nutbag I’ve ever met and she makes me laugh. (Whether it be intentional or not sometimes is beside the point.) E.g. some crazy things Crazy Roommate have said:

“ Yeah, like me and my friends would just have make-out orgies for fun.”
“ I have like this friend, and then one day, she comes over and says her name is Troy and she’s now a boy, and I was like, hell no, you are fucking not...”
“ Like, I’m stalking the Tower of London, making sure that it’s still there?”
“ I’ll go have a smoke and then retreat in my heaven, also known as Happy Ipod Slash Sudoku Land.”
“ You know what’d be cool? Beheading. I want to be beheaded. Like when I die.”
“ Can we have a sea lion in our bathtub?”
“ Frogs creep me out a little, I don’t like hoppy things. Toads I like, ‘cos they just make, like, little hops, but frogs – have you seen the legs on those things?”

(Note that all these are said out of the blue. Who needs a telly when you have such comedy gold in your very own room?! Even though I wish she came with a remote.)

Unfortunately however, the rest of The Oestrogen House doesn’t quite think Crazy Roommate is as deliriously funny as I do and often discard her from such fun activites as Going To Every Fireworks Every Other Day, Clubbing In Skanky Joint and/or Sitting In Front Of The TV Singing Pop Countdowns. Yes, yes and yes, I know. There are cliques in The Oestrogen House, you see. I, it may shock some of you to learn (again), fall into the Socially Inept Hermit category. Or Weird Girl In Number 2.

Anywho. All to say that these are strangely interesting social dynamics, especially with the going-back-to-high-school feeling. Equally interesting is to see how long I can endure this without throwing a Carrie fit.


Right.

So I guess I’m staying. Which is the point of this post. (If there were ever any point to be had at all, I concur.) I’ve decided to stay at least for another couple of months, at least until Christmas.

This also means however that I need to look for a job now. But none of that ‘interesting’ shite, or anything that would require me to care. Because I obviously don’t [cf. blog title]. I just need something to pay the bills, and occupy enough of my attention so I don’t feel utterly needy and insecure the parts of the day when I am not stuffing my gob and/or asleep, yet leave enough time to indulge myself in, well, me. Which, let’s be honest, is the entire point of Project London [cf. blog title]. I know, it’s a wonder I ever get laid.

Wish me luck**.




* I figured if there is anything good to come out from this entire ordeal would be milking every possible ounce of it having a little laugh about it, yes? *thumbs up*

**For the Finding A Job part, not the Getting Laid thing. (Although that is always nice, thank you.)

better

It’s friday night and I’m on my own. For the first time since I’ve been here.

A sign that I am finally settling in?

A cup of tea, dark chocolate digestive biscuits, a good thick book.
And my laptop.

I have been here for nearly two months and I still haven’t a clue of what I am doing.

I don’t remember what happened. I can piece together some parts of the day, from lunch to dinner. And then, I vaguely remember flashes of whites and yellows. And pinks. My pink shirt in red blood. How unfashionable. And all these voices... My vain efforts to spell out my name, remembering to see if my jeans were still on, relief that they were. I remember nothing in between. Just wiping my tears away the next day. Trying not to cry. Thinking ‘what the fuck…' . Over and over. And wishing my mother was there. To hold me and make it all better.

...What. The. Fuck?

What am I still doing here? So much money and effort and sweat and tears and blood. Literally. For what exactly? Could I not draw and paint and read and soak myself in the life I need back in the comfort of my own bed, my own friends, my own family? In my own home? I am confused.

It is eight. He hasn’t called yet.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I seem to have found myself in strange territories.

He is a good man. He is kind and gentle and warm. And so gifted... But I don’t know what to do of him. And I'm lousy at this because I foresee the end. How, why and when. And I am unable to filter these thoughts. Through my mouth. With every kiss.

Such a terrible way to begin. Or live.

I have been listening to that Regina Spektor song in hoops. The one that goes ‘...uh-oh’. Or ‘ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah-aaaahhh’. And/or. Repeat and shuffle. She’s got great hair. I need a haircut. I can’t stand my fringe anymore. And my skin is acting out. It’s allergic to him. His budding beard.

It’s so silly, I keep saying to myself...

It’s too soon. Unusual circumstances.
It can never sustain itself in my natural context.
It doesn’t mean anything. Whatever that means.
Stop worrying about it. Planning its doom.




...And when I’ll go home, will I miss him?




Such useless questions when there is really only one to ask...

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?

7/4 (shoreline)

Here, dotty-dotty-dotty, heeeeere dotty-dotty!

**WARNING: Author’s brain is too scattered for constructed sentences at the moment. Brain’s Editor deeply apologises for this inconvenience. Have a nice day.**

• So here’s the 411, yo: starting August 28, I will be living and working for 6 to 24 months/indefinitely (or Until-I-Freak-The-Fuck-Out-Really) in and around London, England or as I like to call it, The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD. Ex-cel-lent.
  
  
• It’s all about the accent, honestly.
  
  
• And the curry.
  
  
• So far, three options present themselves before me: Option A is still impending what they refer to as the "third phase: face-to-face interview" (and as I am still physically an entire ocean away, this is rather complicated, you understand, and requires from me nothing but utmost patience. Something that I OBVIOUSLY have in boundless amount! [insert maniacal laugh]); Option B lies in the hands of a friend of E, who owns a catering business for which years of [*cough*questionable*cough*] waiting & customer service skills will come in mighty handy for preventing yours truly from slaughtering lovely Londoneers and causing a most unfortunate diplomatic rift between Canadia & her Surrogate Mumsy *toes crossed*; and finally Option C (or commonly knwon as My Best Bet) would see me gathering numerous carton boxes and seeking out for the driest and well-lit corner in town. Any help will be deeply appreciated here.
  


• No matter which option will befall upon my frighteningly delusional little self, opportunities to, in no particular order, travel cheaply, submerge in Art, culture (which may or may not include sampling some good’ol English beer out of rubbish bins) and other conducts of subversive depravity international kinship will highly be welcomed.
  


• Should Option B prevail (somehow outbidding Option C’s glamorous notes), I’ve also been keenly looking into several places where I can crash me bum. The problem here is, since my employment is far from anything as being settled (even though I am due to depart in FIVE DAYS), it’s a little senseless to select a specific area now, innit? I mean, it isn’t exactly cheap to travel through six goddamn bloody zones in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, izzit? And what of the appeal and safety of a neighborhood fit for a paranoid young lass? How can one choose between the attractive eclecticism of the West End versus the once-'dodgy'-now-'up-and-coming'/cheap-housing-market of the East End? And what makes me think I can ever live with complete strangers? Will they like me? Will I kill them? Is it bad etiquette to lift up the mattress looking for bedbugs?
  


• I have been swaying between complete & utter excitement and complete & utter despair. Between being unbearably joyful and terrified out of my fucking tits. In the space of an hour. I am bloody EXHAUSTED!
  


• OHMYGODIAMLEAVINGINFIVEFACKINGDAYS!!!![ad infinitum]
  


• I started to pack last night. Chaos ensued. Tearful trailer included [but not excluded to (I’ll spare you the really ugly bits)]: “GAH! Where did all these things come from?!”, “How am I supposed to fit MY LIVELIHOOD in a 28” by 18” bag!?”, “How am I supposed to CARRY and DRAG this bag anyway?!!”, “...Will my [color-coordinated!] wardrobe suffice?”, “I am SUCH a fucking princess!!”, and, of course, the always delightful “What IN HELL are you THINKING?! Are you COMPLETELY. MAD?!” It's Rated G for Goddiddlydamned Slappable.



• ...Maybe this is not the best time to be coming off Mr. Effexor after all….
  


• I need to see my shrink.
  


• I don’t have time to read blogs anymore. (And the fact that I am putting this into account means that I am officially a dork. Break out the champagne!)
  


• Speaking of blogs, it always surprises me that anyone would read these little neurotic meanderings of mine, let alone give a rat’s ass to comment. But to all the actual three of yous (yes, yes, you over there *waves*), it still makes me all warm and fuzzy in the weirdest of ways for every email, every word and advice and virtual pats-in-the-back, every colon and bracket and parenthesis (or rather :)], yeah? Am I 'in' yet?) during this most crazy of times. I am truly and humbly grateful. And despite being scared shitless, I am still going through with it because somewhere inside my brain jumping and screaming in a [miraculously] higher than my screeching pitch is a little girl who knows there won't be any regrets.* And isn’t that all what one can hope for?

So there.

And remember, any further questions, suggestions and well-wishes can always be replaced by loving monetary donations instead.

Bwahahahahahahaha! I kid, I kiiiid!! (But not really.)




* Is it me or does that sentence sound weird? Brain? Hullo?...

no i in threesome

Well. As I am patiently waiting for my visa (and trying not to freak out even though I am leaving in TWO BLEEDING WEEKS!), and steadily worrying about my life, the cows in Surrey, all the shitty flooding going on and the general plight of this doomed planet we’re all cohabiting without losing the thinly spread hope that has kept me relatively sane thus far, I suppose I could occupy my mind by, say, reading for the 43rd time all the packets and packages and pamphlets about London, returning emails regarding a place to live, sending some work-related letters, seeing my shrink and 328 other things I need to do, but with my visa nowhere to be seen, you see, I’d just hate to start doing all of the above and then, by some inexplicable universal hateful chance, have it REFUSED (!!!) and everything done will be in vain, you see, and it’ll just send me tumbling down even deeper in a downward spiral of utter and complete dungshite. YOU SEE!? It’s logical, really.

*takes her first sip of coffee in three weeks*



Oh sweet Mother of Pearl!…












Okay. Where was I? Ah yes, borderline panic attacks and pessimistic self-fulfilling prophecies. Right-o.

So, what better way, I figured on this lovely Saturday morning, to relieve my nerves than by making A List of My Top Girl Crushes: An Ascension to Lady-Love, because, well, desperate times call for frivolously vain lesbianic love. *cheers*

1. Victoria Beckham. Alas, no, you are not misreading the title, this is not another recent stress-reducing list of mine – I absolutely adore her. My beloved sister actually recorded her one hour special and forced me to watch it the other day (which also goes to show that there is no girly love more precious than sisterly love), and for that I am forever grateful as I am now completely smitten with the boppy-headed doll! Oh, I think she is hilariously majah! On top of being my favorite Spice Girl (shush!), being more quiet and 'demure' than the others, y'see, one quick look at the royal tabloid couple and you just know that Posh here is the brain behind the squeaking walking hunky chunk of manwhore that is the Becks. *drools* Oh if only all tabloid tartlets were to be a quarter as funny & brill as Mrs. Beckham, the world would sleep a lot better. Or, you know, laugh a bit more about its warped ridiculousness. Hear! hear!




2. I confess: if I were indeed of homosexual tendencies, this is the exact type of woman I’d be drawn to.
   
   
   Tall, lean, androgynous-looking, elegantly statuesque, beautifully odd features, Cate Blanchett inspires nothing but awe and strength to me. And she looks like the type who'd be a great hoot to get drunk with. Which would help with the tending toward the homosexual pole.
   
   Hypothetically speaking.
   
   
   
3. Christina Ricci.
   
   
   
   Surreal face, manga eyes and Wednesday Adams. Enough said.
   
   
   
4. There’s something extremely refreshing about Juliette Binoche that, through her forty-something years, still comes off as cool, sensual, naturally and effortlessly stunning. For the life of me, I just can’t think of anything sexier than a French woman comfortable in her own skin, can you?
   
   
   
   
   
   
5. 
   
   Ah yes, a French woman with an impeccable English accent. *swoons*
   
   I actually wasn't a huge fan of Charlotte Gainsbourg growing up as the parts she played in her childhood were usually of bratty whiny country girls who annoyed the daylights out of my budding tits. It’s only when I saw her in 21 grams that I realized (a) 'wow! she’s all grown up now!' (b) 'wow! she can speak English really well!', and (c) 'wow! she has such a pretty soft voice!' A wow-trifecta, one cd and Gondry film later, I was completely taken. Also, she’s exactly how I imagined one of my all time favorite fictional characters to look like.
   
   
   
6. Kate Winslet.
   
   Forget the wonderful acting skills, riot laugh, fabulous curves and sexy voice (everything I imagine The Perfect English Woman to look and sound like), her mere presence in The Holiday keeping me from stabbing my eyes with a turkey fork is enough to win my undying devotion. No no, here's to you, Miss Winslet!
   
   
   
7. Felicity Kerri Russell.
   
   
   
   Oh alright, so my high school days were basically comprised of naval-gazing, looking like a nerd, [unsuccessfully] ignoring boys, make-up experimentations, bad music and 'Felicity'. I’d like to say that I’ve grown out of all that, into a wiser woman with noble taste, but who am I kidding? I had peeked. *cries desperately* Still, Kerri Russell remains one of the most incredibly beautiful people in my book, and am always a little taken aback whenever I catch a glimpse of her anywhere and looking out for movies [except for Mission: Impossible 3 – I pretend that never happened] where she might appear.
   
   Just like an old high school crush you never really got over…. *sighs*
   



8. Jennifer Connelly, or as I like to call her, My Imaginary Self. You see, when I was but a wee child, being the typically vain second born that I was/am, I used to imagine what I’d like to look like when I grow up (what? Didn’t you do that? Isn't this crush a little narcisstic then?) – dark hair, green eyes, angular lines (never mind I am of perfectly round Asian face). When much later I saw Labyrinth, I suddenly exclaimed, wide-eyed, 'Why, that's ME!' The thought that my mind was powerful enough to actually dream her into life quickly crossed my mind but when a castle made entirely of chocolate with a fudge fountain didn't appear before me, well, let's just say that my innocence died in the same beat.
   
   But yeah. She's shockingly beautiful. What else is there to say? Huh? What just happened? Where am I? What-the-who-the-eh?
   
   Carry on.




9. Audrey Tautou.
   
   
   
   Like 94% of people on planet Earth, I have fallen whimsically head over arse for Mademoiselle Tautou after viewing Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain. And if she’s good enough to become Coco Chanel, then really, why should I even bother arguing with the remaining cold heartless 6%? Sweet little garçonne, there is a spunky attitude in her that makes you wish you were somehow a really persuasive lesbian or a dashing manboy, non?
   
   Un peu beaucoup?
   Moi non plus.
   
   If Jennifer Connelly was who I wanted to look like when I was a kid, Audrey Tautou is who I'd wish to be when I was a teenager. Adorable face, sweet little accent, reservedly cheeky and comparisons with The Hepburn (my, I would've died!). And I've always dreamed to have my hair cut really really short like that (damn you perfectly round balloon face!)...




10. And now, for my ultimate female-love, step aside Zhang Ziyi and other frail waif-figured flighty faery femmelettes of the Far East, for here I present to you what a WOomAnn looks like:
    
    
    
    
    
    Huzzah!
    
    
    FINALLY an Asian woman with shoulders AND bosoms AND hips! And just look at that face, will you?! So gorgeous... Sorrowful, fierce, soft, strong, sweet and vixen, she can give it all! Convincingly. And – egad! – not a forceful thought to hide her 42 years, Miz Gong Li is a femme fatale par excellence. Surely not the kind who would take 'no' with a passing nod, no sir!
    
    Nor is she the type would calmly stand four weeks of waiting for a visa without marching into the governmental bureau in the most curve-hugging qipao there is and demand, all cross-legged, her way into the country, with no trail of doubt about her dubious past as a possible whore and/or spy.
    
    
    Really, what's not to completely love about that?
    
    
    That is all.

*does a swinging nervous dance*

pace is the trick

The ever kickass Miss Boo propped up this meme-thing-a-mabob, and like any uninspired impressionable little imp, here I am taking the ‘tag’. (You can therefore point your accusatory finger at her for today’s rubbish. Or, you know, at your computer off-button. Either/or.)

It should be noted that it was a little hard for me to whip this up as I was unsure what, specifically, the requirements are. What constitutes a truly worthy shameful crush, I wisely wondered. Is it ugliness? A terrible hidden rash? A foul character? Weird hair? Fiendish sexual deprivation? Incomprehensible sense of immorality? The problem is, isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder? And to the pits of hell all these socially acceptable conventions of beauty and attractiveness? With such a visceral belief entrenched in me, I was unable to remember being really embarrassed by any girlish crushes I have had. I mean, crushes are embarrassing enough in and of themselves, what does it matter if they are embodied by an Apollo or a Quasimodo then?...

Caught in the middle of all these existentially important questions, I stumbled to the kitchen for a little emotionally comforting sugar-coated-almond-twirly-pastry when, suddenly, it dawned on me. Slowly, like a hidden dirty secret one had frantically tried to bury in the darkest depths of the unconscious, hoping it will never resurface again. My shameful secret. My burned mark. My Wrongest Crush Evah.

*shudders*

Oh, but how could I ever admit to... that, I asked myself. This surely trespasses into Too Much Information territory! It’s just... so revolting, it might shun the most liberal of misguided web wanderers who've somehow haphazardly hit upon this page, and send them into such virtual shock they might get up and – *gasps* – GO OUTSIDE! DO I REALLY WANT THAT ON MY CONSCIENCE?!

Luckily, I slapped my silly little self out of it and figured, "bop". Besides, isn't this why I am wimpingly writing anonymously anyway? (Mouahahahahaha!) So, without further fanfare, here is my TOP TEN WRONGEST CRUSHES: A Countdown Photo Essay of Shame. (You know, to ease the fall.)

NUMBER 10 (2 of 2): Romain Gary.
In all honesty, I am not shameful one itty bit about this crush. Yes, he is older. Yes, he is a womanizer. Yes, he is dead. A quick look at him wouldn’t even conjure the most mundane fantasy a horny nymphomaniac might have (especially in his younger days), but… blink again, and you can see him in the fall of his years. Through those eyes. Sorrowfully yearning. That hair. Ash & snow covered. That look. Keen like a tender dictator, piercing like a boyish gentleman. And - oh my beating heart! - those words! Those words of love, of love, of Love….

I don’t care if it is inappropriate, he can furrow his brow through my deepest bowels if he had ever cared to write a sci-fi novel for me to travel back in time. Even just once. Yes, I said it and I’m not taking it back!

NUMBER 10 (1 of 2): Conan O’Brien.
Again, there is no shame here. Per se... I’m sure I’ve professed more than once or fifty times my undying love for this ginormous chunky white pasty clay of a man. I used to stay late at night in the early days of my college years, watching him and falling off the couch laughing. Sure, I tend to become slightly insane[er] in the wee hours of the morning where I am tired and desperately lacking oxygen, but man, that dude pierces right through my heart with every awkward movement, every marionette strings cut, every wonderfully retarded stint. It’s that entire Lanky/Gangly/Nerdy Thing he so magnificently wears. It’s simple brilliance in its basest form, and I lovitt! And sweet Jesus, that hair! Phwar! Miaorwww!



NUMBER 9: Tim Roth.
Yeah… Mister Orange himself. Man, I fell hard for him. Even through his despicable character in Rob Roy. It’s that Lanky/Gangly/Nerdy Thing again going for him, but with a sharp edge to it. A pipsqueak so bullied it turned to the dark side and you don’t know what to expect anymore. That kind of underdog uppercut. Terribly sexy, if must say so myself, even though I don’t usually go for bad boys in my non-virtual, less-shameful real life. (No, thank you, Internet!)


NUMBER 8: Mike Myers. Nauseatingly patriotic, gushingly cutesy and PC-ly nice – in the worst of ways. But, aww, just look at him! You just know he is the kindest loving adorable guy who’d treat you like an awesomely sweet goddess, teasing you in the kinkiest of ways whilst making you giggle as if you were a kid again and, really, what’s not to love about that?

I’d just prolly change his name though, as it may or may not used to cause some disturbing confusion for me growing up as I once wondered if the Halloween series were perhaps somehow based on him. (Um. Right. Blurred line between fiction and reality - check.)

NUMBER 7

When it comes to physical beauty, I’m rather easy to please. Seriously. Usually though, when I can be caught roaming Out There, most guys I’ve managed to notice when I occasionally come out from my self-absorbed daze for air leave me either indifferent or, at worse, slightly displeased. Nothing beyond that, really. It might come across as snootiness, or coldness, but the truth is I just can’t be bothered. And I’m kinda lazy like that, and… bah. I just can’t be bothered. It's also a mathematical thing – it all converges towards the middle, doesn’t it, physical beauty. To the Average Joes. So it takes something else, as previous list-makers have shown, to hit me out from my narcissistic fog and grab my [figurative] balls. Which is, as previous list-makers have shown, pretty easy to do. Ahem.

But once in a while, there are the few extremes that frivolously pop up, like, say, Christian Bale for instance.

*drools indefinitely*

And then, every so often, at the other far-end of the spectrum, there is such a gaggingly weird specimen that rises above all other suddenly terribly pedestrian-in-comparison Joes to settle the fine balance. Like Marc Labrèche.



And on Heavens's nectars I swear, deep down inside, if I had a choice, I’d pick the latter as my eternal mate in a heartbeat (unless Christian Bale reveals himself as a brilliantly crazy witty & wickedly funny guy with the oddest expressions & self-effacing integrity. Either/or.) Monsieur Labrèche, you see, is one of the few, if not only, comedian that can do absolutely no wrong in my head. And it’s not that he’d never been in some unwatchable work (Matusalem 1 AND 2 anyone?), but he’s so… normal about it, eh! He doesn’t take himself so seriously and always distortedly heartfelt silly and frank about it all! And a Québecois to boot! Right on, bébé! And while he may look like a toad, you somehow get a feeling he may also be a real lion in the sack – roaaaar!...

No?

What if you closed your eyes?








Ahem. Carry on, then.

NUMBER 6: John Malkovich.
Now see, I’ve never been a really big fan of his. He is a very good actor (le Vicomte de Valmont anyone?), but many of his roles left you a bit more than bewilderingly turned off, to say the least (The Man in the Iron Mask anyone?). And I’ve always thought he might be on the gay side, for some reason (even though I seem to have the “worst gaydar”, as a dear friend have once mentioned *hiss*).
The man unsettles me, okay? And it’s that unsettling feeling that, with those eyes - sometimes pitiable, sometimes goofy and/or insane, always disdainful - well, leaves me slightly short-winded, is all.

Oh, and he speaks French. Albeit with a distracting accent, but with enough cynicism and arrogance to make me swoon. On the inside. Obviously.



NUMBER 5: Bart Simpson.
What, gotta problem with that? So what if he’s a cartoon perpetually stuck at being a 10-year-old mischievous brat with sickening complexion? He’s jusshokiute!

Yes, I think Bart Simpson is unbearably cute, and despite that obnoxious exterior, he has proven more than once to be a loving kid filled with good intentions and a naïve blinded hope only unruly little shitters have. Oh if I were a four-fingered 10-year-old two-dimensional yellow lass, I’d stalk his perky lil’ bum silly! Uh-huh!





NUMBER 4: Colin Farrel.
Dirty ill-mannered yesterday Pretty-‘It’-Boy. And the idea that there are hordes of frantic young starlets swooning and pining over his Hollywoodian manly good looks makes it, unfortunately, even more embarrassing, if I were to be condescendingly honest. And he looks like he would smell of whiskey and tar over a five-day-old fermented sweat.

However, he also looks like he’d be a riot to hang out with, laughing and being vulgarly uninhibited, drinking and singing awful songs you don't know any words to until the the break of dawn, where he’d finally take you home and make sweet ravenous sex to you (or any other way you like it). ‘Cause he just seems to be nice like that.



NUMBER 3:
Good god, this is so wrong I can’t even bring myself to believe it! For the love of all that is holy, HE IS NOT EVEN LEGAL! And Harry Goddamned Potter, in the name of Dumblefreakingdore! And I don’t even read the goddamned books - I only watch the goddamned movies because I’m the kind of sad little girl who likes dorky wizardy action stuff like that, which, by the way, is exactly what got me into trouble in the first place as that sad little girl is exactly the sort of girl who would fall for a Lanky/Gangly/Nerdy type such as young Radcliff, who - for the honour of Greyskull! - just so happens to be delightfully charming with a great jaw-line to boot! Gah!

I just caught an interview of his on The Tonight Show recently and – oh, my swooning teenage heart! – he is so endearingly cute! Charmingly nervous and self-deprecating, he suddenly turned to Jay Leno who had asked him at one point if he’s the type of guy who’d spend a lot of “dough” for his birthday, and confusedly replied in a darling English accent “Um, do you mean like cookie dough to make a lot of cookies?” *hands over heart* Dear lord, kill me why don’t you! And have you seen him recently?! Of course you have! Sweet lord, I feel so DIRTY!

(Mmm… dirty…)

GOOD GOD! Stop it! STOP IT!!

*quivers shamefully in a dark corner*

NUMBER 2: Pablo Picasso.
From illegally innocent little geek to misogynistic old bastard. (I know, I’m like a snowflake like that.) It’s the whole vicious, hateful, emotionally manipulative, pretentious sort of ponce with an exaggerated self-importance and visions of grandeur that somehow, in his [and his arsekissing posse's] distorted fucked up mind, give him the right to treat everyone else like shite that I have a particular distaste for. Which is why it pains me – pains me! – to admit my hots for him. *rolls eyes* But, goodness gracious, what unyielding belief in the idea that Art can (and did!) change the world as we saw it in a time when we needed most. There were of course others who marched to the same beat (and subjectively brought a more interesting & appealing execution, such as Duchamp, whom I unabashedly adore)... But there is a distinctive magnanimous force behind Picasso’s work, I think, in his will, that enabled him to eradicate whatever had come before him, be it good or bad, and to make anew. With something as simple as the swift of a paint stroke.

Or a look from those eyes….


It’s disarming me as I simply take a furtive sip from it, g'dammit.

He’s the kind of asshole with whom I’d imagine having an end-of-the-world row only to shag like transcendental dogs in the stormy midst of it on any surface there is.

That’s right. You read it. Now, let us never speak of this again.





... Unless you prefer we not talk of … MY WRONGEST CRUSH NUMBER 1! *echoes-choes-ozes-ozes-oes*

*covers her face in shame*

I know! I KNOW!!! I just know next to nil about politics - even less British politics - and yet despite being aware of his vile pact with the Devil (and, apparently, his responsibility in the complete collapse of the British health, educational and transport system *shrugs vacantly*), he still strikes me somehow as a nice posh English man, yeah? With good stature & height, and a nice smile, and a clean voice, and an unexpected sense of humour, really (relatively? for politicians, anyway (god, a politicican...)), and well, he’s kinda 'dashing', is he not?... It’s just that every time I see him on the news, I just get a little flustered, and think, “Well, you know, maybe he is just trying to become the connecting link, to divert the evil blows of Satan upon the self-righteous minions of the world, and somehow believed he can persuade the Horned-One to fuck up Pluto instead, or something, and in failing that (or rather after witnessing the poor rock being stripped from its planetary status), tried to soften the fucking up of Earth in the smallest possible doses, but then it all went terribly wrong, ‘cause, dude, you just don’t mess with Satan, okay?”, so therefore he’s really but a victim like the rest of us in this entire terrible ordeal, right? RIGHT?!... And then he laughs that horsy laugh of his, and I just think, “Aw, how bad can he really be, that poor misguided lanky chap!”...










Oh, good bloody CHRISSST! I can’t believe I am EXCUSING this unfathomable abomination! What the hell is WRONG with me?!?

*cries*

Oh, please, turn away! Divert your nanobitty liquid-crystal gaze from me as I dig a hole for myself!...

Or... you know... lend yourself to the awful exercise...? To make me feel better, yes? Hullo?...










... Pah!

*falls to the ground wailing*
*claws at cheekst*
*etcetera, etcetera*

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!

ocean of noise

Hullo! My name is [vapidly vibrant] and I seem to be in a writing rut. *waves*
Not that there aren’t any infinitely inane ideas impatiently imploring impression but I just can’t seem to imaginatively immolate them idiomatically. And all attention is avidly attending to actualize, achieve, accomplish (and absolve) somewhat life-altering affairs at the moment, which I very much wish I could waywardly write here on a whim but am afraid it might wander wildly away, wither and waver. Which we do not want. Oh to the no’s, and other assonances & alliterations of sorts.

So, here are some links for you, oh great bloggiverse (sadly, that first paragraph took all brain-wanking power I had. Apologies if words now not connected or sensical. Poo and fart. Frown.):

- http://www.weebls-stuff.com/toons/bonjour/
- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7Op0AvcVOQ&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;mode;
- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6T0UQfKTcQw&mode;
- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_lWdOFvkF7k&mode*






**Bonus Feature!**

After racking my blogging hero’s archives to find this little jem, you may now all know what I look like! Hurrah!...



Or not.

Apparently, I am of impaled wizardry and Canadian flair. How very just. And I have no idea if Sho Sakurai is a girl or a boy. But Gary Oldman?... LIKE TWO PEAS IN A POD! And I have Dracula’s teeth to prove it too! For realz, yo!

Aahhh... Live long and prosper, Internet!

Also, my left shoulder hurts. I haven’t a clue as to why.




* Right. If viewing these leaves you unabashed, confused and/or slightly feeling sorry for me, then by all means, never mind this little footnote (but thank you for your concern!). If instead you find yourself laughing with tears streaming down your face, amazed & astounded by its sheer genius, and somehow have even more time to waste, then do have a look at some other of Mister Don Hertzfeldt’s shorts if you haven't already. No, I am not paid for this free advertisement nor am I in anyway related to him. And yes, I love him.

[n.b. I swear, I AM doing Other Important Things...]

the coming of spring

Aside from the general sun tauntingly shining on, puddles of melting brown shite (or What Is Left Of The Glorious Snow), the sweet smell of feces emanating from said pile of melting snow (extra aromatic due to months of fermented bliss - mmmm...), and wait - is that my throat itching? Is that my nose running? Is that my left eye tearing? Why, it's ALLERGIES SEASON! *punches fist into wall* - it can't be all bad, can it...?

With that in mind (Ouh! Ouh! Look at me being all positive!), here is a list of Good Things About Spring:

1. After months of wanting to let my bangs & hair grow, I gave in to the Spirit Of Change and cut the whole damn thing! Well, not the entire thing, just gave myself a wee trim. And a kickass dye. Which feels immmmeeeensely good. Behold!
   
   

   Before

   
   

   After(See the difference? It's darker now, yes?
   Am image of Adventurous, truly?...
   Humour me?)

2. Maple syrup. Need i say more?
   
   
3. Now, if you break it down, what 'Spring' really stands for is 'Spring Cleaning'. Which ultimately leads to LOOK AT MY SWANKY CLEAN COLOR-COORDINATED CLOSET!
   
   
   
   I love it so much, i could just sit here and marvel at it for hours, quite sadly!
   
   
4. Have just finished my paper on Education & Minority Language Acquisition! Hurrah-rah-rah! (...although that doesn't have anything to do with Spring, now does it? If anything, Spring is paper season and i actually have two other ones to write for this week! Okay, happy thoughts, happy thoughts...)
   
   
5. Ouh! With the warm weather I can now wear my cute lighter coat and kickass brown leather boots again! Gnarly!
   
   
6. AND, because three months of Winter makes us Canadians slightly deranged in the head, we can now enjoy our drinks on terraces! Even if it is still only 5C outside!*
   
   
7. Closet again.
   
   
   
   Yes, let its magic wash over you...
   
   
8. ...as you listen to this! (click on the small black box in the middle, marked "media", then "audio", then the 5th little blue square from the left. You can listen to the entire thing too, of course. Go on, it's only mildly frantically dancy!... Unless that's not exactly your piece of pie. In which case, never mind then.)

* I believe that the more exclamation marks i put, the more likely am i to feel its enthusiastic effect. As long as I don't strangle myself out of sheer annoyance first.

the blossoms

Well, it is officially Spring. *eyes search vainly for a place to hide*

In the words of a very wise lady (who got it from another wise person - lady or otherwise - although that would not change her 'wise' status as we all know that that birds of the same feather flock together, or some other shit wisdom of sort), "Fake it 'til you make it!"

Right-o. If there were any appropriate time to fake it, it should be now, innit?

Wish me luck.

[n.b. photo courtesy of gontanon. Because i can't be arsed to take a picture of Spring. Yet.]

au gré des saisons

I have been feeling "less than giddy" lately but somehow my beloved sister successfully talked me into going to the cabane à sucre with a few of her friends. As much as I wouldn’t like to take anything away from her impressive powers of persuasion, promise of endless maple syrup (perhaps) had something to do with it....

So at 2 p.m., prepped up in my Outdoor-Woodsy outfit (yes, i name my outfits... what?) , I apprehensively stepped out into the cold wind and on my way to meet my sister. Some two hours later. Now usually, despite being a true public transport kinda gal, the prospect of 120 minutes of transit accompanied by strangers with dubious social skills [ha!] would only further convince me to stay hidden between my covers. However, this time, I was going to take the train. And I love trains. I love being in the central station. I love the high ceiling, the open space, being in between destinations. It feels homely to me. I love the way trains smoothly slide across the city, from downtown to its furthest outskirts, and lazily watching as you drift off into the ether [suburbs].

By 4 o’clock sharp [4h20], i met up with her and, after frustratingly arguing & fidgeting with her new GPS device [her] & threatening to throw the damn thing out the window [me] for another 15 minutes, off went two of the most hardcore city girls I know into the untamed wilderness [Rigaud]. Two hours of jolly car-riding later, we managed to get there unscathed [startled by the creepy robotic GPS woman every 3 minutes and freaking out as we speeded through the Steepest And Narrowest Road With The Most Potholes Ever]. As we circled around looking for parking, we noticed however that the entire place was eerily deserted. In a quickly abandoned kind of way. With empty old wooden cabins scattered across the perimeter...
“What time are we suppose to meet them again?! It’s already 6 o’clock! It’s going to get dark soon!”, I calmly inquired.
“I don’t know?! They should be here now!", my sister reassuringly replied. "Oh look! There’s Audrey’s car!”
After parking the car right next to the little Echo like the expert driver that she is, my sister skillfully tried to turn the GPS off as it angrily refused à la HAL-9000, while I keenly scanned the woods for a man in a hockey mask. To further prove how paranoid I am my survival skill was on tact, I dutifully made note, as I was putting my handbag in the trunk, that there was a shovel in there, youknowjustincase. Clearly, we was made for outdoor fun, the two of us!

My sister, sensible & fearless as her dependable nature can ever tolerate, suddenly laughed out with glee as we were circling the grounds and declared, “But where the HELL is everybody?!” Grabbing onto her like dear life, with my Alert Button switched on to RAMBO, I discretely responded in the most comforting of tone, “ OH MY GOD! THIS HAS JASON VOORHEES WRITTEN ALL OVER IT!” Oddly enough, it was at that precise moment that a sweet old man with a beard that seemed to be chewed off by rabid rats & a farmer’s hat he'd found on a cadavre decided to jump out from one of the wooden cabins as if he had been watching too many B-rated slasher horror flicks, followed by two hungry feline creatures that hissed at us out of our fucking tits, and asked us where we were going. “Oh my god! Are those cats hissing at us?!..”, I courteously shouted in response.
“Est-ce que vous pouviez nous dire où se trouve la cabane à sucre, monsieur?”, my sister finally asked him, realizing that I was about to run for my life and/or kill them bastard cats, which incidentally decided to rub against my legs.
“God! What’s it doing?! Is it rubbing against my legs? It’s rubbing against my legs! Hey you! Cat! Don’t you know I hate you?”, I continued on my lovely gibberish.
“Oh, c’est pas très loin. Attendez ici, je vais vous amener”, the old farmer replied.

Instantly, my mind travelled from Friday the 13th & Pet Cemetary to Wolf Creek in the speed of light. As I turned to my sister and met two petrified bulging eyeballs, I comforted myself in knowing she was thinking the same thing. Still, as it would be most impolite [and insane] to start running for the hills, we decided it would be best to hide our fear and waited while he harnessed two ginormous Canadian horses to a wooden carriage.
“Are there blood stains on the horses?”, I caught myself asking aloud.
“Can you run?”, my sister abruptly turned to me. She was smiling in that Scared Shitless way she has.
“Oh hell yeah, I can run, but… what? You want me to leave you behind?”
“Just make sure you can run, okay?! [insert maniacal Lost-Her-Mind laugh]".
As I was [actually] contemplating if i could make it by running back to the car, finding a way to open the trunk, getting the shovel and coming back in time to save my sister, the Creepy-Wolf-Creek-in-Rigaud Farmer stormed out as if he was triumphantly riding Hades' carriage. At his suspiciously kind behest, we nervoulsy hopped in.

During the few interminable minutes of the ride, which involved small talks [him - “Vous venez d'où, memzelles (are you far from safety)?”, “Vous êtes toutes seules (will anyone come looking for you as I rip out your lungs)?”], noting that we were at least going slowly enough to jump off & run for the hills if need be [me], grinning in what can only be described as utter & complete fear [sister], I casually asked him whether there were lots of people working today. Confused and slightly suspicious (?), he distractingly whispered “Non, pas vraiment...”. *Alert Button goes off the charts* As we were about to put our escape plan into gear, the carriage suddenly came to a halt in front of what looked like the dinner hall. He got off first and stood by the gate.

To help us get down.
Like a real friendly gentleman.

Feeling a little silly indeed, we graciously thanked him for his utmost kindness. And then ran inside.

Much to our relief, all my sister’s friends were already there (and not in fact ripped to shreds nor pinned up to a wooden stick) patiently [drunkenly] waiting for us. We told them how we had arrived "in style" [as oppose to "insanely"], and much eating & drinking ensued. Soon, the only impending danger facing us was the explosion of our stomach as pea soup, homemade breads, sausages, mashed potato, ham with maple syrup, eggs, and oreilles de criss [fried pig skins] quickly filled our bellies. It was like a massive Celebratory Breakfast For Being In The Glorious Woods with no adults to say 'no more'. And lots of wine. Obviously.







As dessert was coming up soon, we all firmly believed that [embarrassing] dancing would burn off the calories & make room for the traditional sugar pies and crêpes.


Of which I had six.

The night cannot be over however without the epitome of the sugar shack experience [the main reason why I dragged my sorry ass out of bed], so as soon as the chansonnier* announced that the Maple Taffy was ready, we clumsily (and drunkenly) ran outside to get in line, just like we used to do when we were 10 years old. Mmm, good times.



Yes, it all looks like a game of Write Your Name In The Snow from your younger mischievous days**, but it's really hot maple sap poured onto [what we all delusionally hope is] fresh snow. As it hardens up, you quickly twirl as much of it as you can around a popsicle stick, much like in this most expert of ways:

And then, when you have successfully created a lolly without getting maple all over yourself and become thus a life size maple stick (very dangerous, especially around drunken hungry gluttons - trust me, i know...), you simply suck on it 'til all self-respect is lost! Yeah!


High on sugar, we merrily popped by the General Store where many a-maple syrup goodies are neatly packaged and ready for consumerist use. My sister bought two jars of syrup while I got me some dark chocolate filled with maple sugar***. I would have bought that entire basket too, but alas, am also very poor.

All in all, i was glad i went. Even though it involved trying to be "sociable" and "friendly" to people i've never met (eventhough most of them were indeed quite nice, albeit slightly scary, what with the horde of stray cats and vapid killer eyes to their general impression...)

So, lesson of the day: psychotic murdererous scare & massive amount of sugar increase mood. You read it here first.











*Yes, a real one! With the curly country hair, plad shirt, brown suspenders and even coureurs-des-bois boots...to boot! Get it?...ahaha... okay. Carry on.

** Which i sincerely implore, for everyone's involved well-being, to not play during -15C conditions. One would think this is obvious, wouldn't it? Not so, blog world, not so...

*** T'is but a shameful marketing tactic, to drug one up on sugar before the shoppig spree, i know. But, eh, who's complaning? Not I.