nothing came out

Quand je fais la montagne de vaisselle qui pourrit dans l'évier, quand je descends les pavés inégaux de Regent Street, quand je remonte les escaliers mécaniques du underground (à la DROITE, à la DROITE!) ou m’assieds sur les bancs feutrés style soixante-dix du tube (surtout quand je m’assieds sur les bancs feutrés style soixante-dix du tube), peu importe ce que je fais, je ressens cet intense désir de m’évacuer. Ça s’accumule et s’empile, ça gronde et ça grouille avec une lenteur souffrante, juste là-là.

Mais quand ça compte, quand je pose mes fesses et dégourdis mes doigts, avec anticipation et transpiration, ça ne. Sort. Pas.

Ça bloque.
Ça enfonce sans pousser.
Ça agace comme une grosse merde.
Ça fait chier, mais pas vraiment, vous suivez?

Mesdames, messieurs, je suis blogstipée.

Mais en attendant que mes muscles relaxent, veuillez visionner mon band* chéri du jour. Merci.




*Quoi, vous n’attendiez pas du Beethoven quand même? Pas après ça... (Ô! R’gard les jolies couleurs...!)

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.)

moon river

Relationships are weird.

I don’t mean just the romantic kind. It’s the general idea, the incessant drive, the rumbling need for people to come together in one moment in time and share a piece of their lives, their memories and their hearts, to bond, to connect, and then just up and leave, as the tidy currents of life would only have it, that all seems a tad... odd.

Doesn’t it?

When J flew away to his Big Corporate Job about four months ago now, I didn’t fully realise what it entailed. So we won’t be skipping and singing along the streets in repugnant British accents anymore, and we won’t argue over who hates the other more or who's the bigger bitch nor will we embarrass ourselves our mothers by orgasming over the gorgeous colors of Club Monaco’s shirts and skirts. So we won't mimic sexually depraved shenanigans to the horror of our friends or whore ourselves on the dance floor to the dismay of too-cool-to-mess-their-hair indie posse. Nor can we mock, gag and plan devious ways to shun folks with shiny pants and moustaches only to come up with stupid t-shirt ideas we think are absolutely brilliant. So we won’t be able to have shitlong conversations over beers and tears and lattes and laughs. After six years of friendship and all that we have gone through, it is a little silly that being a continent and ocean away would mark the end of it, I thought. Besides, as proud 21st century unsociable geeks, practically 50% of our relationship can be recorded through the intricate nanobite world of the interweb, it’s not as if it’ll be that big of a difference anyway.

I thought…

The funny thing about being away, every relationship I have is re-evaluated. And by extending my distance from them, I seem to have found space to better feel them. And it feels like going through a big cleaning for the harsh winter. Like assigning old frocks to different boxes – the ones I don’t really need, the ones for the deep freeze and the ones that I’ll always keep, all year-round, through the seasons. Like an inventory for my heart strings. To know what’s waiting for me when I come home. To seek out the ones I want.

I’ve known Jules & Mary since I was seven years old. Despite having briefly ‘drifted apart’ during high school, and though we don’t see that much of each other anymore, every time we get together we somehow manage to pick up right where we left off. And the only things that seemed to have changed are the careers, the cars, the boys, the locations. We still laugh at the same old jokes, at the same old memories, and we even manage to love one another more for the little pieces we find out through all these years.

It’s astounding, really. To find these people you can be yourself with. Who just get it. Like E. A feisty little woman with enough sass to sell and still be able to kick your ass to the moon. But also so sweet. And innocent and caring and just and honest. Whom I wish I had spent more time with...

And what about those who are bound to you by blood? Who are inexplicably and irrevocably true and strong and unconditional. These people to whom you owe so much yet never comprehend why, or know how to ever repay. These people whom you have no choice in the picking, whom you learned to know and hate and understand and love, who build and feed and comfort you, for the sheer reason that they are referred to as ‘family’. Who are indefinably yours. Whether you want to or not.

But... there are also the others.

The ones who after all this time together somehow still don’t quite understand. Unfortunately. And though you still care and love them dearly, no matter how hard you try, they will never get it and will always hurt you by it. Unintentionally. So what to make of these people, those years past and these pieces of you blown in the wind? How can you get them back? So you can take them and give them to those who would care. Because there is such a depleted amount of where that came from...

And isn’t it a little self-delusional to think that there would be people who would care? That aren’t all these relationships just another accessory to reaffirm your illusions of self-importance and your meaning in the world? Simply through the feeble validation of others? Aren’t all these friends and lovers, connections and conversations sought out to comfort & endorse your subjective beliefs & opinions, and pat yourself on the back? To make you feel less trivial somehow? Anyhow? And at any cost?

As much as I hate thinking of people like some appropriating piece of clothing one can store and wear and throw and give away, for sentimental reasons or self-preserving purposes, the truth is I can barely keep myself together let alone someone else in my out of whack wardrobe.

Yet…

There is that yearning again…




And then there’s the moon...
And my Seventeen-Year-Old Self...
Who believes that the trivial is meaningful…

Enough.




Human nature to survive, by any means possible, is stronger than one may think. And completely, utterly fucked up weird, if you ask me.

Which, of course, no one did.

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.)

hands away

Wales was beautiful. The hills, the greens, the sheeps. And how nice people were…. Sometimes, I looked up and breathed it all in. And those moments filled me with a trifle bit more breath, enough to stay one more day.

Because I’ve been wanting to leave ever since I had arrived, you see. If I must admit it. And it’s not something rather easy for me to admit. Not after all this time.

It’s not because I was shacked up in a complete and utter shitty moth-infested hellhole with centipedes crawling up the tub* and folks whose horseshit** depressed me in a way I had forgotten. It’s not because it turned out that I really really– really – hated my job, or because it is insanely ridiculous to find ways to make ends meat in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD. It’s not even that I so gut-wrenchingly miss my mother’s sweet embrace, or my father’s warm eyes, or my sister’s loud obnoxious voice, or even my friends’ hearty laughs sometimes. It’s not exactly that I think I’ve made a mistake at all…

It’s because I started to cry when I was trying to explain what I was doing here to this beautiful man from Nairobi and he inadvertently gave me a Look. A Look that he quickly, politely, diverted. A Look that I quickly, graciously, recognised. A Look of empathic defeat, comforting pity. A Look that recognised me. And my desperate lies. A Look that unravelled everything.

It’s that I think I’ve slightly overestimated myself, you see. And though I’ve always known I am lost, and therefore must find a way – any way – that would somehow be mine, like a lost child that wasn’t cute enough to make international news***, the one I was counting so much on turned out to be a little… ill-fitted. For me. For now. Because, my dear, you’re even more lost and fucked than you had thought. Because you could never stand the spotlight anyway. Because it’s too soon.

And though I have come here like that 21-year-old girl who three years ago had found something she lost, something I wanted so much to find again, I am not that girl anymore….

So here I am now.
At square one.
Incidentally named Russell.


















Let’s see how we get on, yeah?




* CENTIPEDES!! Yes, we all agree that I am an undeserved prissy little princess but for THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS FUCKING HOLY – centipedes!? They are WORMS!!! With FEET. Thousands, in fact. Crawling. In. The tub. Where one is naked. Now, I somehow amazingly managed to not even mind for the first few days or muster a goddamned word of complaint (mainly bc this one girl did plenty of that), but add it to my growingly shattering state of mind and believe you me that I am feeling slightly robbed for not receiving an honorary trophy of Keeping It Cool In Hell, lemme tell ya… *wiggles finger in the air for no-one to pretend to care*

** In all fairness, I’m sure they are all delightful folks to hang out with. In small doses. (Although I am considering adopting this one guy but that’s bc he saved the little vestiges of sanity I had left, mainly by being a completely pessimistic bitch – and we all know how that’s just music to me ears (he was also queer - my faghag is happy).) But horseshit, specifically, the kind that one throws around to give oneself an air of nobility, be it moral or class or intelligence, as horses tend to convey (as oppose to bulls or dogs, whose shite usually refer to the pedestrian kind one throws around without thought, harm nor belief), particularly kills bc the horseshitter actually holds on to it like dear life, believing so much in its retching stench he/she castrates and/or bullies anyone or anything that might question its integrity, as if they’re on a self-serving high-horsed quest for the Equestrian Excrement Holy Grail, and THAT, my virtual friends, is the sort of shit that kills, okay, kills!!... End rant.

*** I am a horrible pretentious biatch and will die alone & unhappy. (Apply note wherever needed.)

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*

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&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...]

in a manner of speaking*

[J’écris pas souvent en français. En fait, presque jamais. (Et non, c’est pas pour ça que j’ai manqué d’insérer une négation là, devant ‘écris’, mais plutôt pcq c’est de l’oral, du 'français vulgaire', vous suivez?... Bah.) J’ai grandi en lisant Baudelaire, Balzac, Voltaire, etcetera, et puis Prévert, Aragon et Gary (ah! mon royaume pour un Gary!), et tout ça m’intimide pour être honnête. De plus, je ne régis en français que lorsque je fusse (wow – subjectif* imparfait, ça fait longtemps que j’avais pas utilisé ça!) à l’école et ne peux ainsi m’empêcher d’adopter une prose plus corrigée, correcte, propre, qui fait un peu drôle à [re]lire maintenant quand je radote, mais j’adore et a toujours préféré le français. Il me semble qu’on peut chuchoter les choses les plus chiottes et ça me semblent** d’une sincérité agaçante. Et j’aime comment ça souffle à l’oreille....
Bon alors, me voilà donc, la verve de Hugo qui me vient aux doigts... On va bien voir ce que ça va donner.]

Malgré avoir toujours été cette fille un peu égoïstement honnête qui ne sait pas souvent quand il fallait*** se taire (quand je m’y mets en tout cas), ou qui se plait souvent à se considérer plutôt ouverte & directe, je suis du même coup jalousement renfermée. Eh oui! Dit celle avec un blogue, merde! Un blogue que de parfaits étrangers à travers le monde – aussi peu, en fait, et aimables soient-ils et soient-elles (quoique, entre vous et moi, chère deuxième personne du pluriel, vous pouviez tout aussi bien être des adeptes de Scientologie prêts à bondir sur mes moindres moments de faiblesse et m’en faire la prochaine recrue, non? Je connais tous vos trucs...) – puissent lire! Des choses dont la plupart des personnes qui me sont les plus chères dans ma vie réelle ignorent même l’existence!... Des conneries radotées qui m’auraient poussée à me jeter du pont Jacques-Cartier si un regard distrait osait simplement s’y être posé!?... Que?! (ça, c’était de l'espagnol. Oui, je connais la langue de Goya également : Como estas? Mui, bien, y tu? Bien tambien, gracias; buenas noches, me llamo [vapidly vibrant], no se – voilà l’étendue de mon espagnol. Impressionnant, non?)

Le fait c’est que, je n’ai pas l’habitude de dévoiler quoi que ce soit à personne. Depuis que je suis toute jeune, j’avais su garder mes secrets, mes pensées, mes sentiments les plus profonds, les plus vrais, à moi-même. D’une manière qui m’échappe encore un peu, j’étais venue à les considérer comme mes cheveux de Samson, ou ma cheville d’Achille. Et tant et aussi longtemps que ces autres les ignoraient, que ces idées demeuraient entièrement et tout à fait miennes, alors, j’avais le dessus. Que personne ne me connaissait me donnait le 'pouvoir'. C’est d’une possessivité inquiétante, je sais. Mais, je me sentais en sécurité ainsi, bien touffue derrière tout ce moi que les autres ne voyaient pas, protégée comme par un châle invisible qui me permettait d’observer les gens sans qu’ils s’en aperçoivent.

J’étais bien. J’étais conne.

Parce qu’après toutes ces années à apprendre à vivre comme un tas de merde bien conservée dans un topperware qui essaie de se biodégrader, j’ai réalisé que ça ne marchait pas. Non mais, pas du tout. Tout comme cette métaphore d'ailleurs. Surtout parce que, personne ne sachant qui j'étais réellement, je me permettais d’être deux filles en même temps pour apaiser tout le monde et passer ainsi plus facilement sous le radar. Oh, que je suis futée, m’étais-je dite! Être à la fois docile, indépendante, pratique, rusée, tête forte (la fille de ma mère, quoi) et émotive, naïve, curieuse, frivole et un peu tête de linottes (parfois?), sans jamais que les premiers spectateurs ne connaissaient les derniers, j’étais libre comme un cameleon!

... Et puis, un jour, il y en avait une qui s’était mise à aimer... Et ça boulverse un peut tout, l’amour... Ça confond, ça brouille, ça salit, et ça s’en câlisse. Jusqu’à ce jour, j’ignore encore qui des deux avait commis cette faute. Peut-être étaient-ce les deux? Ou y avait-il une troisième? Peu importe, en fait... J’ai seulement réalisé que j’y arrivais plus, être toutes ces choses en même temps. C’était devenu un champ de bataille. Et il me fallait choisir un camp.

Oui, il faut choisir.

J’ai passé la plupart de ma jeunesse, sinon à lire, à écrire dans un journal. J’aimerais bien pouvoir dire que je le faisais dans un but introspectif cérébral et réfléchi afin de me discerner, mais j’aimais tout simplement l’idée d’avoir un livre dont j’étais réellement le héros (un peu comme dans ces romans Folio où il fallait lancer un dé et battre des vampires, seulement que j’ai dépassé ce stade, vous voyez. Egocentrique à fond, je vous dis...) En tout cas. À relire tous ces journaux, je me désolais à voir que je n’ai pas tant changé que ça [...depuis mes huit ans]. Je tournais en rond. Je ruminais. J’en avais marre, un peu honte même, et j’ai arrêté il y a quelques années. C’est seulement quand j’ai commncé ce blogue, initialement pour la même raison que j’ai commencé mes journaux – pure vanité –, que j’ai senti quelque chose de... différent. Tout léger. Indistinct, même. Ma thérapie m’a aidée à décoincer, certainement, mais taper des balivernes complètement insensées qui se déversent de ma tête sur des microbytes virtuels dont le fonctionnement m’échappe royalement m’est d’un étrange bénéfice.

C’est l’ouverture, je crois.
Il était un peu temps que je m’ouvre...

C'est que je m'aperçois que mes pensées arrivent à se libérer ici. Une liberté dont et envers laquelle je suis devenue responsable. Même si personne ne les lisait, même si on s’en fout à la fin, même s’il n’y a pas de destinations ou de destinataires précis (malgré les quelques Scientologistes potentiels pour qui j’ai une tendresse toute particulière...), ils**** s’envolent tout bonnement, dans ce vide virtuel, au lieu de pourrir dans ma tête, m’offrant ainsi un moment de répit et l’espace pour choisir, pour être qui je suis.

Et me voilà donc qui choisis.

Et qui l’écris.

Sur un blogue.

...Merde...





* Bonjour! English translation? As you wish.

Don't tell me you learn nothing interesting here.... *muffles uncontrollable laughter*

[EDIT: So, i just can't leave those errors there now that i know of them, not can i? CAN I?!... Goddamn you, Frenched Twelve-Year-Old!:
* subjonctif - hey honest mistake... ahem.
** semble - gah! kill me why don't you!?
*** faut - this doesn't really count. It makes sense in my head, k?
**** elles - so i have gender identification issues. It's no secret to anyone.]

thank you for the music

I’m not a music elitist. Really. My darling Big Cuz would beg to differ but he also loves the Backstreet Boys (and if a fully grown 25-year-old man seriously believes that the Backstreet Boys are “great musicians” and expects anything less than endless mockery and patronizing sighs every time the topic of music – or anything else for that matter – comes up then the world is worse off than I have ever expected). I might get a trifle involved & ridiculously possessive with certain bands & songs sometimes, but I am also acutely aware that, hey! It’s just rock n’ roll man! And I am utter shite at these things anyway! Many a-time have I been caught not only singing proudly to the Bee Gees and praising the disco gods that are ABBA (hello?! Aluminum sashes? PURE GENIUS!), but also happily dancing to the Pussycat Dolls (or is it PCD now? Am I cool yet?) and the completely fabulous bollocks that is this. Yes, ladies & gents, I am a shameless dancing whore, and therefore in no position to pass any musical judgements at all.

Also, unlike other hardcore musical snobs that I lovingly know (hey there, deary! How’s it going?), I listen to the radio. *gasps* And not that socially aware pretentious informative one either, no - it’s mainstream radio for me, baby! I enjoy its peppy chatter. Usually, while meandering through my morning routine as to not pass out from the buzzing silence as I brush my teeth, you understand. Or as I go through my besoins matinaux. Which means I mostly haven’t a clue of what is going on other than I mustn’t pass out and fall asleep in my own wee. (No, thank you, morning radio!)

However, it has alarmingly come to my attention that an increasing number of utter & complete shite curiously composed music has gained more and more airwaves time recently, which not only cause the little number of functioning neurons left in my brain to auto-prune but to wake me up in an angry jolt at the sheer offensive unpleasantness of it all. Here are but a few causes for my concern:

Covers & remakes.
Or Much Of The Same Old Thing. Only Not As Good.

It seems that covers and/or remakes are becoming as fashionable as footless tights again. And just like the bewildering piece of clothing, it takes a certain flair to carry it off. A flair that unfortunately is missing in most.

These days, it's Eric Prydz’ 'Proper Education' that is constantly dubbed in me neck of the woods. It’s not that it is bad – or even that it’s a clubby dance remix of Pink Floyd playing at 9 in the morning (and let’s face it, I’d probably embarrassingly shake my ass like no tomorrow if it were played in an actual club, regardless of what time of day it is). The problem it’s that…well, it’s not that particularly good either. Or even – dare I pretentiously say it – relevant. I mean, if you are going to take a well known classic from a 70’s cult rock band with enough hardcore fan base to ruminate in their basement and strike a half-baked outrageous whiny letter to spam the daylights out of the gorgeous Mac on which you produced the song in the first place, at the very least, do something interesting with it, eh. Like this. Biased? Completely. But notice how, in this version, the Scissor Sisters managed to retain the gloomy disillusioned mood of the original while leaving the cringing angst behind for some uber groovy & sexy beats. It’s inventive! It’s fabulous! It’s Is-It-Me-Or-Is-It-Getting-Hot-In-Here kind of music that grabs you by the balls every time you listen to it and doesn’t let go! (Which sure beats vapidly giving a few disinterested pokes to it, now donnit?)

Then, there’s this Gary Jules’ cover of Tears For Fears 'Mad World' that completely defies my purpose of listening to the radio altogether and sends me collapsing in the sink in a bad case of narcolepsia. Ironically, I tend to indulge in these very sentimental slow naval-gazing soppy songs, so if I think it induces untimely comatosis – may it be voluntary or not, due to its monotone and boring beat rather than its depressing content – then, Houston, we have a problem. And how is it that it’s becoming so popular now? Wasn’t this a song featured in Donny Darko some 6 years ago? Why the sudden resurgence?

…Just like footless tights! A-ha! So the mystery starts to unravel….


Boys. Bands. And boybands.

Okay. Justin Timberlake. I must humbly admit that there was a foolish time in my ‘youth’ where I’ve thought, “Huh. He’s kinda cute, isn’t he? And wow, what great skin!”, but that was back when he’d just started his solo career and really caught me by surprise by not definitely sucking [said, I note, in a sexy German accent]. Now, I am convinced that he is on a one-man quest to bring back Castrati on the forefront of fashion again, and unless you are a pedophile hidden under the veil of a catholic priest (hiss!), I really don’t understand why more people aren’t marching against this most barbaric of trends. Instead, Mister Timberlake is swarmed in popularity & praise wherever he goes and even succeeds to make out with the incredibly hawt Scarlet Johansson in his over-hyped and bore-me-to-tears video, which begs the question, “Why, Scarlet, why?” No, seriously, why? At least with Michael Jackson, it was always flabbbergastingly cool (even when he started making out with Elvis’ daughter, we were all morbidly fascinated – that was entertainment!). As for comparison with Prince (for shame!), I believe Mr. Purple Rain has well proven that he had a fair dose of testosrone during his adolescence to reach a decent C.

It is also possible that I may have missed the memo where 12-year-old boys were hot & sexy.
Balls. I’m always left out from these things.

*pouts*

In other boy news, has anyone heard of this guy?


When I first heard him on the radio, I almost shat in my pants thinking Queen had released a hidden track and no one bothered telling me about it. When the truth was revealed that no, Freddie Mercury did not come back to gloriously haunt our airwaves again, I struggled between feeling a little robbed & outraged that this Mika had the insolence to imitate one of the greatest rock n’ roll voices of all time and secretly comforting myself that it wasn’t actually that godawful… Alas, the song tends to get highly on one’s nerve after the third listen, by which time you’ve successfully determined that though similar, he definitely lacks Mercury’s, well, talent. And charisma.

Oh Freddy, you are still the original one & only Fag to the Hag in my heart.
Le sigh.

While on the topic of voices, why wouldn’t Fall Out Boy crawl back to wherever it was they fell from? Their whinging screeching through my speakers is starting to pain me to tears. I know, it took some time but I’d always believed that patience was a virtue and they’d run out of air soon enough. Was that hopeful thinking? Wassit? Because, WHY WILL THEY NOT LEAVE?!

The only problem I fear is, once these emo squealing dolphin-boys are drowned away from the musical ocean (see what I did there? Dolphins? Ocean? Ha! I’m so rad…), old sharks (okay, will stop with the aquatic metaphor now) shall come back with a bloody vengeance…. Bon Jovi? I’m talking to you here. Oh, Bon Jovi, what a love/shame relationship I have with thee…. You were so great back in the day with your long 80’s mop and sleazy tees and ripped jeans, singing and promising debauched love & infidelity with damn-it-all attitude while riding your motorcycle into the sunset like the soft little toughie you wanted me to believe. How many times have I risked being thrown out from a speeding car as I insisted on wailing 'You Give Love A Bad Name' on top of my lungs… Good times. Why then must you return from rock n’ roll heaven with hip trendy haircuts and fashionable leather jackets with half-assed written self-important ballads to shatter my 14-year-old dreams of you? WHY?!

*weeps in her sleeves*

This is starting to bring me down. I seriously need to find me some hot rocker boy to inappropriately perv and conceive many adventurously steamy fantasies over. Any suggestion is welcomed.


Gangsta rap.

I don’t get it.

That is all.

Please don’t shoot me.


Ô Canada, land of crap music!...

Alright. That was a bit harsh. And rather untrue actually.

There is indeed great music grown in this land I live – Arcade Fire, Broken Social Scene, Feist, K-os, Tegan & Sara, The New Pornographers, to name but a few from the English side of the medal. But that’s not exactly what’s being massively exported now, is it? It’s not even getting most of domestic airtime. Instead, you know what we get to hear day in, day out, every fucking day? DO YOU? Go on, have a guess!










NICKELBACK, that’s what!
NICKEL. FUCKING. BACK. Why in the world would anyone want to release this unredeeming horror of a band from our borders – any borders! – is beyond me. Oh! how it shames me…. And I’m not even the least bit nationalistic at all! But is that sort of utter horseshite that's known as "Canadian music"!? (That, and Ann Murray. But let’s leave poor Ann out of this, she didn’t spawn the devil child that is Chad Kruger.) *shudders* God, I feel dirty just saying their name. And not in that good naughty-dirty kinda way either. That can’t possibly be healthy, now is it? That’s not what music is suppose to do? Ever. And can someone please tell me how to differentiate one of their song from another? Or is it just the same old rubbish being endlessly played in countdowns for the past 5 years? Shouldn’t that be illegal? No, really. I NEED TO KNOW!

Oh, and as if that wasn't enough to make one wants to change nationality, who can forget about "our little Canadian princess"? No, I am not talking about this:


but rather this:
Lady Lavigne who, for all the money & marital bliss in California, would not shut up. Sadly. And while I’m fully aware the very high risk of her stalking me down to scratch my skin off and spit in my face, this is something that must be said. For your own good, Avril. Really. May I call you Avril? I don’t care. Listen, Avril, you are quite pretty to look at, seriously. Looking at photo above, no one would think you’re an obnoxious mentally insipid little brat who hadn’t cleaned her nails in three years. I’ve heard you were interested in modeling, or *contains vomit* ‘acting’ a bit. Which is great! Really! As long as you never ever open your mouth again. Please? I’m sure you’d be quite pleasant as a little model. You really do have great facial features, which pains me to see them being so utterly deformed with your constant grimacing & tongue-pulling. It makes me want to slap you. And come to think of it, I don’t even mind if you land a speaking role in a movie at all, for (a) it would hopefully be someone else’s lines & not your own incomprehensible slurring that will be excreted from your perfectly defined lips, and (b) if I don’t want to watch your *contains vomit* 'acting' I will simply not go see the movie, instead of having to endure your banshee voice that every goddamn radio station forces me to listen every goddamn morning! So, it's a win-win situation! Hurrah!

Except for the dancing. What’s all that about, eh? Is that suppose to be "ironic"? Was that the aim? Were you drunk? Because, like, I don’t, like get it.

Like.

… Then again, is it all just me? Am I too old to "get with it"? Am I "out of the loop"? Am I not "hip" enough? Not "in with the crowd"? And, more importantly, when the hell was I ever anyway? So many unanswered questions....

*sighs heavily*

In any case, as I am waiting for my new music to come in through the mail (I love you, Amazon!), here’s to hoping that they will make me all forget & forgive the above and that I won’t throw my radio through the wall in a fit of uncontrollable morning rage. With these new purchases, I really can’t afford any renovation.

big mouth strikes again

As some readers who (somehow?!) stumble upon my virtual meanderings may have realised, I don’t dive much into political/social discussions around here. Nope. Aside for the fact that I am fundamentally self-obsessed and frivolously cultured, this is also because I rather have what I deem as 'Adult Conversation' live, so to speak. With friends and/or family and/or random strangers over food and/or/of course lots of liquor, where one can thoroughly enjoy all the passionately weird facial expressions, vociferous highs & lows, exaggerated & dramatic hand gestures, in-jokes, rabid retorts, and a building momentum where everyone ends up shouting at one another. Ah! Good times! I think I have a belligerent streak in me, which may have been passed down courtesy of me Daddio. (Not that The Crazy Woman is a kitten either, but when discussions are mixed with my dad’s right-wing friendly obstination and my conviction that I’m always right, it always makes for a particularly… auditive experience, whereas my mum simply prefer to shy away from direct confrontation by giving us the Evil Eye.)

Anyway, all that to say (and also to provide further proof that I can’t help but to talk about myself anyhow – seriously, it’s a curse) that this is going to be one of those 'Adult Posts'. Sort of. (Oh, who am I kidding? It's not.)

I am not going to pretend that Canadian politics is all that exciting (OR that I actually know much anything about it), however last night’s electoral run was some kind of roller-coaster that may or may not have seen yours truly rise from her drenched sweated seat* & hop around the house making jihad chants** as the thin social fabric that have leisurely rocked her priviledged ass crumbled when the Action Democratic Of Quebec rose from the bowels of hell. Yes, the ADQ that promises to solve all of the financial, educational and health issues from its own windy fart. Um. Yeah. I suppose if I were high on myself [enough] and gulped down an entire bottle of Ritalin, I could have come up with a loosely similar ‘program’. AND WIN 31% OF QUEBECOIS VOTES! Squashing the PQ to the grounds as the LEADING opposition!

Now, being a non-separatist and all, I have never been of the Parti Quebecois, but at least i enjoyed and would actually listen to what they have to say. They're like the arch nemesis of the Liberal Party, and seeing them crushed - but literally - was heartbreaking in the same way that seeing David Xanatos being destroyed by Demona*** would be devastating!

While Beelzebub Junior slowly wraps his dirty little fingers around the confusedly 'leftist' political throne, it was announced that the barely leading Liberal Party was going to reign as a minority government - which was no big surprise, really - BUT WITH NO PREMIERE AS CHAREST LOST IN HIS COUNTY! Oh the horror! You should have seen my poor sister who is a die-hard fan of the Liberals. There were sighs, then cries, then a lot of screaming and death threats (while I congratulated myself a little in the inside for making a good call by running away from it all to England [soon enough, I cry & plead hopefully!]). We figured that all was lost and everything we held dear - the life-long battle between the Liberals & the PQ, the stable shitty government that everyone complains about which allowed all this spoilt whinging anyway - was surprisingly twirling down the drains! Oh, save the children! We were finally going to taste true chaos! As I already began dancing & chanting in my indigenous taunt****, a sudden frantic recount in Sherbrooke settled, at the very last possible minute, that – hurrah! – we were going to have a legitimate leader after all! What a [insignificant yet relieving] turn of events! We all gathered around the telly keenly waiting for the poor man to deliver his defeated speech of victory at around 1am, and I was genuinely glad and touched by [and believed!] his dignified & humble discourse. That of the sad PQ leader, André Boisclair, reeked however with understandable disappointment and held-back tears. It was quite sad, honestly. And queasy to watch.

Anyhow, it’ll be interesting to see in the next few weeks & months as the ADQ gather their shits together trying to figure out what the hell they are doing in the National Assembly while the two arch rival PLQ & PQ might finally join force to battle against a common foe. Oh, these are exciting times***** indeed!…

Will be back to my usual uninformative shallow naval-gazing self soon enough. At ease.





* Right, well, yes. I suppose i should specify right away that i am infringing the first law of voting, in that i am whining here when i *cough*didn'tevenvote*cough*.... BUT! I wanted to, but, then i just...didn't really care give a shit could.... Ahem. Besides, it's not like it would have counted anyway seeing as where i live people are actually literate and didn't vote for the devil, so there. Really. It's not all that bad!... All alright! i'll sign up for some extra volunteering be really keen and helpful and extra nice, from now on, yes? It balances everything out in the end! Um...Look! A bird!
**Right, should have warned that this wasn't going to be necessarily very PC either, eh? (Tch, of course, i mean in a ironic way... ahem.)
*** Yes, well, i've been oddly reminiscing about my childhood lately.... Suppose when things seemed much simpler, and my biggest concern was either gargoyles & humans can have babies and whether or not i could steal wear my sister's Calvin Klein socks to school without her knowing it. *sigh*
**** cf. 2nd endnote.
*****Ouh! the possibly really good exciting news of the night was that the Green Party actually increased in popularity! Yay! And I'm not all dead and cynical in the inside!

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.