Blee-Bloo

I've decided that I want to marry at least five people. But never get a divorce. As in kinda like polygamy, but where the woman has multiple husbands, not the other way around. It really could be the answer to many problems, think about it. It would cut down on population (which is a measure desperately needed to be taken right now), it would mean six people (myself and my five husbands) would probably be able to live quite comfortably, if we all worked, but not full time because there'd be five incomes. There are more women in the world than men, so it would make things more equal. And women, on average (in Canada) outlive men, so there'd be a greater chance of 1) me being there until the end for all of them and; 2) one of them being there for me until the end.

This is my bit of wisdom for the day.

I'm sorry, I can't write this post without sounding emo. I am so overwhelmed by my environmental studies class. I love and hate the stuff I read for it everyday. It depresses me and inspires me at the same time. I cried reading an article today because I just feel completely helpless. There's no foreseeable way as far as I'm concerned, to reverse this full speed downward spiral we're sending all our lives towards, and it seems like no one will notice until it's too late. I'm glad I'm learning about this, because I'm slowly becoming more and more aware, and I suppose that's a step in the right direction. But I feel like I'm wasting time sitting in school, when stuff needs to be done NOW. I've taken 9 ferries since mid August. BC ferries spend $75 million a year on fuel, that's a lot of fucking fuel. I use my computer everyday, sucking up god knows how much energy, everything I use is made out of plastic, I eat next to nothing locally gown, I've never planted a tree in my life. And yet, I recycle paper, and people think I'm environmentally friendly, that's extremely sad. I'm just as bad as everyone else, and everyone else is horrible.

Oh, how fabulous.

These are the steps to writing a paper, so far as I've learned them:
1) Alright, I feel inspired for this one and I totally know what my argument is, I've just gotta find some references and I'll be done in no time!
2) Wow, I can't find anything, e-journals SUCK.
3) I don't have any idea what the fuck I'm arguing, maybe I missed a class, I don't know what's going on.
4) *roll up in a ball and cry for 20 minutes*
5) Pick yourself up off the floor, get some inspiring words from another (if your lucky) or have your own mini pep-talk, and move on
6) Realize in looking back at what you've written so far, that it all sucks, and that you need to start again.
7) *roll up in a ball and cry for 20 minutes*
8) Realize how pathetic you are, and how could you have thought this would be easy
9) *roll up in a ball and cry for 20 minutes*
10) Know that you've now wasted an hour crying when you could have been working and it's now 12 o'clock at night and you've gotten no where
11) *roll up in a ball and cry for 20 minutes*
12) *roll up in a ball and cry for 20 minutes*
13) Write your god damn paper, not caring if it makes sense or does anything it's supposed to do.
14) Get a C on you paper
15) *roll up in a ball and cry for 20 minutes*
16) Start your next paper.

Poser, or is it poseur?

So I've hit the institution popularly known as university, and anyone who's reading this would know because everyone who reads this knows me in 'real' life too. Everyone who's reading this would also know that I am doing nothing but procrastinating by writing this, to the point that I really should not be writing this at all because I have a huge test tomorrow.

I have this thing where I feel like I need to impress people, which is lame, but I know I'm no where near alone in that aspect of my personality. For example, there was a poster sale on campus the other day and I bought some posters(as one tends to do at a sale for posters). Anyways, I bought 'Don Quixote" by Picasso, 'Les Elephants" by Dali, and a crazy colourful one by Kandinsky. Needless to say, I am no art critic and I really know very little to do with art. In my defense I really do like these paintings, but I can't help but think that I bought them in part for credibility. You know, when that cool, well dressed, extremely cultured person who lives on your floor in res walks by and is like, "oh my, Salvador Dali, he's just excellent." And you're like "Hmm, I suppose he's ok, you know all the artist out there, there really are lots that are much better than him, for numerous reasons." Well, I guess that didn't really happen, but it could have, and then I would have been like, score, brownie points with that random! Res seems to suck the life out of you. It is by no means easy to make friends when everyone is either already friends with a lot of people or they're just weird and immature and get into cliques that are way worse than highschool ever was.

So the moral of the story is don't go to university, especially don't live in res, and buy posters because you like them, not because you want others to like you because they think you like them... And now I MUST go and study.

thunder thunder thunder THUNDER! LIGHTNING! RAIN!

Look up before you jump

So, I'm just chillin' at Brian's house, and we hear this loud banging noise from above us. Brian suggests that it's roofers, but seeing as we were in the bottom floor of a three story house, I thought the fact that it seemed like the ceiling was going to collapse meant it was a little closer than that. So being the detectives we are, we went to check it out. When we got upstairs we realized that it was just Patrick cleaning the deck, and all was good. After a little chat with his mom, we started to head back downstairs. Now I have this thing, and other people have said they have it too, where I hate walking up or down stairs in front of people. You kind of get that feeling like you're being chased where your stomach flips around and you get a crazy surge of adrenaline. So I'm walking in front of Brian and kind of getting this feeling, but I'm ignoring it. I said this was a three story house before, and it still is... so that was on the first set of stairs on our way down. Then on the second flight of stairs, he went in front of me and was just fooling around and being stupid, so I just laughed and walked in front of him. Then I heard his footsteps on the stairs behind me and I got all freaked out and started to run down the stairs and I jumped the last two and I heard this big bang, and didn't know what it was at first. Then I realized that it was my head on the doorframe at the bottom of the stairs. Yes I'm still alive, no I didn't get a concussion... I don't think, and yes, I am a retard.

What was I gonna say?

I have a perfectly good reason as for why it's been about a year and a half since my last post.

I have Alzheimers. I'm sorry to break this news to you, but it's true, and is a perfect explaination for much of my odd behaviour. For example, I'll walk out of my house without my shoes, but I usually figure it out by the time I'm on the driveway; I went to school without my backpack the other day; I must write everything on my hand if I want to remember it... in detail because if I write "Talk to nicole" when I want to talk to her about something, I won't know what that something is unless I write that too; I consistantly trail off in the middle of my sentences, or can't start them at all because I've forgotten what I was saying, or was going to say; I have to ask my friends what class I have next on occasion; and I make about two to three different plans, with different people on a single night on a regular basis.

So in other words, I kind of forgot I had a blog, and why would one think about writing on thier blog if they didn't remember they had one?

Why I'm 25 cents richer.

So, I'm on the skytrain with the crew, hardly able to move due to the mass amounts of sushi in my stomach that's weighing me down. We're all pleasantly quiet, reminiscing about the wonderful meal we just ate and as we went along, at one of the stops a very drunk, and therefore responsible (b/c he was taking the skytrain) man stumbled onto the train. He was happily swaying, smiling, and living in his own little drunken world when along came his stop. Meanwhile, Brian and I weren't really paying too much attention to him, we were just talking and what not. However, he did catch our eye when he started walking towards us. We were holding each other's hands and this man decided to drop 50 cents into them, two quarters. He was smiling as if he had just found the cure for AIDS, with the fluorescent skytrain lights gleaming off his red cheeks. Me and Brian decided to split the profit, hence my recent fortune.

Also, just on a side note, I feel like making everyone who reads this feel lucky, in comparison to my misfortune. So I was doing my homework today, and decided to take off my nail polish, just for procrastination. So I'm rubbing away and the song that came up on my CD wasn't really a favourite, so I decided to change it. As I got up, I knocked over my nail polish remover bottle, which was conveniently open. It spilled all over my homework, kindly disintegrating all the ink on the pages. Thank you.

Sigh

My mother asked me to pay her five cents so that the canker on my tongue would go away. Don't worry, I didn't understand either, I attempted to make sense of it, but ended up being more confused than to begin with. We had a good laugh and she blinked her eyes in an exaggerated manner, claiming she's becoming blind from spending too much time on the computer. That reminded me of the last time I saw her laugh. I believe it came right after this story: So I went out for dinner with Brian last night, and we were just eating, talking, you know, the usual things one would do while eating dinner. Then he said something funny that made me laugh, or maybe I was laughing at him, either way, both things, once again, that would happen normally while eating dinner. Then, in a moment of my greatest demonstration of class, wit, beauty, and charm, I snorted at full blast, recieving more than a few looks from the quiet onlookers. I just have one request: Please, would you all still love me when I've completed my transformation into a plump and tiny little pink pig.

Get an education kids

Sometimes you do something, just because you can. Like letting out a fart when someone's vacuuming, because you know they won't hear it, or eating all the clusters, which everyone knows is the best part, out of a cereal box. Well, last night, just because we could, me and a few friends went to a "gentlmens club" a.k.a. a strip club with no alcohol, and more lapdances and interaction with the stripers off-stage... We were all convinced that it was going to be a huge ROFL fest, but once we got there, I thought other wise. There were 35-50 year old men scattered around the room, alone, and I was just praying I could see both of their hands. There were also a few groups of slightly over excited 20-something year olds, crowded around the front. Then out came the girls. They were pretty enough, but seemed a little too young, and a little too drunk, cracked out, or whatever else. Pretty much, if you could go to a place that embodied depression, this would be it. I would say my favourite one was the girl who cleaned the pole of before she started... or maybe the one that fell, twice. I don't really know what I was expecting, but that wasn't it. It think I'll just continue to contemplate this over my easter dinner left overs, that aren't even left overs because we never acually had a dinner. That's right, see if you can figure that one out.

I dedicate this

Carmen, because I love you soo much and you seem to enjoy mocking me to no end, I'm going to dedicate this post to you. I realize that I spend too much time being deep and emo, and I neglect you sometimes because of it. I'd like to apologise to you, perhaps I could buy you a tree and you could plant it and claim you're attempting to cut back on your CO2 emissions. Or I could play you a Jack Johnson song on my guitar with beads in my hair, nothing on my feet, and a joint in my mouth. You could sleep over in my tree house and we could think about how the world works, you know, why birds can fly, why love can make everything better, and why we all can't just get along. Then we could go to UVIC and chase bunnies wearing nothing but ankle braclets and flower crowns. Ah, yes, wouldn't it be nice? Oh, yes, one more thing Carm, fuck you.

2 4 6 8

I think I have a fear of too much order. As in, neatness, even numbers, organization, etc. It's great enough that it's reached an extent where I purposly avoid it. Like on some paper I hand in to the teacher, if there aren't any scribbles on it, I'll actually scribble out a perfectly good word, and rewrite it, so that I feel more comfortable handing it in. It's like I'm trying to make people think I don't try too hard, but in order to acheive that I have to actually try harder than if I just didn't care. Faws are just satifying to me. I seriously do, in every way. For example, if someone has crooked teeth, I almost instantly am attracted to them. Or even better a lisp... that really gets me. Then there's the whole number thing. I can't listen to the radio on an even number, this I inherited from my OCD brother, but it caught on and I just can't shake it. If someone else moves the volume dial and it lands, heaven forbid, on the number 10 for example, I have to change it to 9 or 11, or it'll be on my mind until it's off. And setting my alarm in the morning, I won't set it to any even numbers, or any multiples of five. Like today, I woke up at 7:21, a perfect time if you ask me. Now, I wouldn't go crazy if I had to wake up at 7:20 and listen to the radio at 8 but it's just a choice thing, I'd really rather not.

Besides, everyone has their things. Like I mentioned before about my brother. His thing with the volume is he has to listen to it on a number that's a multiple of three, or a number that has the number three in it, so 3,6,9,12,13 etc. Chloe shares my obsession of eating chocolat bars layer by layer, until you're left with just the inner part. Nicole can't touch dishwater, not that the average person is so enthused to, but it usually isn't a problem. This list could go on forever, and this is what makes everyone 'strange'. Although, if everyone's strange...then who's normal?

How would you draw 'ripe' in pictionary?

Hmm, I'm ridiculously uninspired right now. This always seems to happen to me. I've probably written about three posts all of which were lame and all of which I deleted. This is the last day of a pretty good spring break, and this is all I have to say:
I woke up this morning to a kind and warm greeting from my parents.
"Happy Birthday Meggie," says my mom with her sweet smile and perfect mom arms that always manage to give the perfect mom hug.
"Thank you," is my sleepy response.
"Happy Birthday cutes," is my dad's calm hello, accompanied with a hug. He then goes on to pat my back and tell me how old I am and that I'm over the hill.
"I'm 18 dad, I don't think I can even see the hill, I'm still riding around on my red tricycle about three miles away."
My dad smiles to himself and starts singing some song that has the words "Over the hill" in it, as he walks out the door.

Oblivious

So, the other day I needed to do a few errands. You know a little of this and a little of that. First stop was the shoe store. I spent quite a while there, quizzing the sales attendant who's eyes seemed to twinkle a little, almost in mockery, when he looked at me. He assured me of the shoes' sturdy but comfortable soles, and I soon forgot about the twinkle. Next was the bank, where everyone I looked at was smiling at me. I just held my purse a little tighter, assumed everyone was having a fabulous day, and smiled back. London Drugs was my next stop. I knew what I needed, so I was pretty much in and out, and yet I couldn't help noticing that the cashier's exasperation seemed to intensify once I was the customer she was attending to.
"How are you today?" She asked although all I heard was, what on earth do you want from me?
"Fine," I said hesitantly, confused by the combinations of odd behaviour that had been going on all day, "The weather's been really nice lately, no?"
"Mmm hmm" she muttered in time with the beeping of the barcode scanner.
I got in my car and drove home, all the while perplexed as to the source of this strange behaviour. I was mulling it over in my head on the way home, up the driveway, up the stairs, and as I entered the bathroom and glanced in the mirror, it all became clear. Unfortunately someone with a striking resemblance to Alfalfa from the Little Rascals was staring back at me. Fantastic.

Nobody knows it but me..

Growing up, I've always had this wonderful idea, that, unfortunately I know will never happen. It started with watching movies. When you watch a movie, it seems like now-a-days, the soundtrack can make or break a film. Like, what would Gardenstate be without the Frou Frou song at the end? Or Romeo and Juliet (the newest version, w/ Leo) without the radiohead song near the beginning? Anyways, back to my idea; to have a soundtrack...for your life. Cool no? All you have to do is just think of a song, and it kind of radiates out of you. Sometimes you could inflict it on others, like if you see some kid dressed like a gangster walking down the street, start playing some 50 cent, and follow him around for a bit. And other times, it would kinda go by itself. As in, say your boyfriend just broke up with you, and to him you're all like, yeah, whatever, I'm better off without you, but all of a sudden Right Here Waiting for You by Brian Adams starts blasting. And you're like SHIT, not again, and huffily walk away..

Most of the time, however, it would just be goodtimes. Like if you're a hooker, but you don't really want to be, you could play Roxane by The Police, and pretend it's about you. Hmmm, or if you're chilling on the beach in the middle of summer, any positive song by Jack Johnson would do.

Well, I could go on for days and days, so, you know Tell All Your Friends by Project Orange...

Buzz, Buzz

Let's take a moment to appreciate every pierced or tattooed person, yes even Brittany and Christina. This seems to be the last thing accepted by our elders. They're all ok with homosexuality by now and have dropped the racism, for the most part, but a girl with her belly button pierced is still letting society know she's a hooker, according to my grandma, and if you have a tattoo, you're obviously in some crazy gang that goes around killing dogs on Friday nights and eating them on Saturday... in front of the three-year-old you took it from. Being a proud owner of a little of both worlds, I'll have every last one of you know I have never been paid for sex, and am still begging my parents for a dog on a regular basis.

Now, people always want to know the reason for your tattoo, what it means. The answer will range from honoring a loved one to a forgotten drunken night, both however, with a similar result. For me, I think it was a motivation. This might sound bazaar, but it's the only reason I can think of that really made me want to get it. It's a treble clef, just a little jazzed up if you couldn't tell, and well, I love music and I was positive it would always be a part of my life. (See, I do understand the word forever.) I don't really play any instruments, but I've always wanted to, and I thought this would force me to do so. What if I never take up music you ask? Then what's the significance of it? Well I can appreciate music with my ears, if nothing else, and that is by no means insignificant. And for everyone's information, I've semi-taken up the guitar, so in the end it did help to motivate me. Now I don't think I'd ever get say, myself riding an elephant in Thailand, or swinging through trees with spider monkeys in Brazil, even though I would love to do either of those things for the rest of my life. It was a reasonable goal, that I was positive would happen, so I had a little pre-career incentive, because I'm obviously going to be a famous musician.

In the end, it's for when I become a hippie and refuse to wear shirts, cause I mean, who wants to conform like that?

Clunk, Clunk.

Yesterday I went on an epic journey. Allow me to write it in story form. I'll be... the Duke of Luchester.

The sun peeks up out of its slumber to tend to the day just as the moon slides away to hide from it. I, Duke of Luchester, prepare myself for another day's hard battle. Swinging my legs over the side of my bed, and slip my feet into my golden slippers. I clatter my way to the bathroom (seeing as my slippers are made of gold), tripping gracefully now and then. I hear a roar, and hide behind the laundry hamper until I realize it was just the furnace turning on. With a few, clunking, leaping bounds, I arrive safe and sound at the bathroom, despite the forces against my arrival upon this spot. I lift my bristled weapon to my mouth to tackle the evils from Plaquestan, and then I washed them down the drain.

Later on...

The King of Fringe, also known as the ruler of Bangs and myself have had an on-going battle. More recently on the battle field, I've noticed my army of eyelashes has been having difficulty keeping the King of Fringe at bay. This calls for extreme measures, so I sent in the terrifying Scissorio to take him down in a few short snips. Scissorio did such a good job, that my army of eyelashes took a two week leave to visit their families. Scissorio, in fact did too good a job, and the eyelashes might not have enough money to support their families for a while... damn you Scissorio.

(Translation:
The sun came up and I got out of bed (I don't actually have gold slippers, I don't have any slippers at all, I just thought I duke might have golden slippers). Then I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Later on...

My bangs are too long, always poking into my eyes and I need to cut them, so I decide to do them myself. Shit, I cut them to short.)

If Only

My love for awkward people comes from a place very, very deep inside me; some place like my diaphragm, or maybe even my small intestine. Having been an awkward person my whole life, I tend to sympathize with this breed of people with great ease. Actually, I take that back. I haven't been awkward my WHOLE life, just, lets say, the last twelve or so years. It started with the good old neighbourhood crew. I couldn't fit in. However, they would sometimes need me, to even out a number in a game or something, so once in a while I would be included. This is really where the trouble began. After an hour or two of cops and robbers, I would need to pee, and well, I didn't want to go inside and then come back out to find they'd carried on without me, and they'd realized that the slow, fat, annoying little girl (i.e. me), was actually of no use to them, and therefore wouldn't let me rejoin.

I never found out if that's what would have happened, because it always ended up unfolding a little differently... I would be sitting as quietly as possible behind a tree/car/planter/etc. and, well guess what? You can't stall going to the washroom forever. At first it would just be a little, you know, like if you're laughing really hard and you lose control for a split second. Then, it was like a chain reaction; it just didn't stop. So I'd run towards my house, not only giving away my position, but also giving away the fact that I was seven years old and should still be wearing diapers.

Big deal, you say. Well sure, I grew out of it eventually and life went on. But that installed a huge sense of insecurity in me for, well, my whole life at least until now, and probably for the rest of it too. It inhibits me from doing things like: Forming proper words/sentences when in the presence of someone that intimidates me; not turning as red as a baboon's ass at the slightest embarrassment; being capable of interacting in any normal way with the opposite sex; and controlling my random spastic movements and twitches once any of these previous things happen to me.

In conclusion, I am awkward. I don't care how much people tell me otherwise (which they don't, but if they did, I'd disagree). Despite this horrible, life-threatening disease, I've found a way to accept it. In fact, I truly, truly love awkwardness now. (Yes sometimes it takes a little thing called hindsight to appreciate my own, but I always come around in the end). I'm even starting to be attracted to it. Example: A grade nine boy manages to bump into about ten people, drop all his books and pens, lose a shoe trying to pick them up and apologize to all the people he's inconvenienced, all the while having a very red, very pained face. I stop, give him the once over, remember he's practically a baby, and keep walking. If only someone would have checked me out the time I actually slipped on a banana peel, or fell on my ass from slipping on the wet floor, or even the time I bailed while trying to take two stairs at a time, then stopping myself with a very tiny, very frightened grade eight boy.

Hmm, yes, if only...

I came close, I saw the light, then in the middle of the light, I saw food, glorious, glorious, food. Then I ate it.

Pop a colla, balla

I've noticed a striking parallel between sewing machines and life. I spend roughly 4 hours a week bending over a sewing machine, because it's my random, old fashioned, 50's wife hobby. My current project is my grad dress, which happens to require a ridiculous amount of fabric, probably enough to clothe every single African child (wagering that each of them would need no more than one square inch, as I have been informed of their surprisingly small bodies). It's easy to lose yourself in it, and well, it really can be quite overwhelming trying to get out of... kind of like life's problems? Then, when you have everything organized, you can breath properly without 80 pounds of silk weighing down your chest cavity, and your mouth is thread-free, and there's no need for spitting or sputtering, the sewing machine decides to be a fuck-head. That's right, you've done nothing wrong, and it comes along and decides to get all in a knot over things, without taking in to account my time restraints, or my rage problems. This would be the pretentious douche bag (in life that is) who literally throws a wrench in your bike spokes, sending you projectile-style head first over your handle bars. Mmm hmm, or it could be: Your stupid, mindless ________ who screwed you over by ________ ing your __________.(You fill in the blanks)
You could choose words like:
brother, eat, sandwich; or
boss, pee-soak, jacket; or even
sewing machine, ruin, mother-fucking-dress.
(You're supposed to plug those words into the blanks in case you didn't catch on).

So anyways, one of my teachers made a joke today about how she doesn't actually teach us. The joke wasn't the part when she said she didn't teach, it was more the irony of the fact that she's a teacher, and actually doesn't teach. Funny, no?

P.S. I am participating in a 30 Hour famine, and if you don't hear from me in about three or four days, tell my family and friends that I always loved them and I always will.