Long live and live long

I love lists. I hold grudges. I write them down.

My list of the top ten comments I wish I had said in 2009:

10. You are among the worst people I have ever met and had I not been horny and lonely when we first met, I would've never become friends with you. You are an untalented, unfunny, ungrateful loser and I feel sick to my stomach for giving you the time of day. It was a momentary lapse in character on my part and it will never happen again.

9. I don't understand why you insisted on becoming something so artificial. I call it 'artificial' not out of malice, but because your transformation hurts me and leaves me with one less person to trust. I love you regardless.

8. You are cool. Your significant other is not.

7. There is no reason for me to disbelieve you when you say you are happy, except that I feel in my gut that you are not. Stop insisting that happiness is easy. If it were, then you and I wouldn't be the people we are, and I kind of like who we are, but only when we're genuine.

6. How can I measure how grateful I am to you? I can't. Thank you.

5. Shut up. Stop talking.

4. I want you to leave her alone, to be present and to notice how much of her you've let slip through your fingers. You're repeating the same mistakes you made with me and you're too fucking ignorant to see it. I hardly love you anymore.

3. Your helplessness and your lack of responsibility pisses me off. Why is it that you're only a good friend when you're drunk? I don't trust you one bit.

2. I stopped talking to you because I stopped talking to a lot of people this past year. Also, you're boring.

1. You mean a lot to me and the only thing I fear is that I'll grow to resent you as I have so many other people that I love. You were the best thing about 2009. I'll never tell you this because I'm afraid this will scare you.


Yours,

I


How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed time of character?
-H.D. Thoreau

Filmmaker

It scratches the skin on my face... my neck... the palm of my hand and the tips of my fingers. I love holding my hand around your head and resting my cheek against your ear and feeling the pinch; you never shave this time of year. The time when you're caught in your thoughts. Caught in your imagination... brainstorming every shot, playing with every spoken word, and framing and reframing shapes and colors and sounds and silences. Leg and chest. Arm and shoulder. Right there. That curve of the neck....down to the back... the chest. You love how my hair looks when its up. The pearl of my earring. The touch of my ear.

A mattebox around the eye of your mind and I'm in front of the lens whether I like it or not. The all seeing, all hearing lens.
What am I wearing now? In this minute, this moment? I wanna wear that dress with the lace and the seqince... It reflects in the light. The same light sparkling in my eyes. I've always been obsessed with eyelight and you know this. I know you know this.

Your hand is warm on my waist. Take off your Wayfarer glasses and look at me. Kiss my eyelashes with your fingertips not your lips dammit.

Is the moment before not sacred anymore? What happened to courting? What happened to feelings? Real feelings? It's all masked by adrenaline and your blood.

Grab me a goddam typewriter and let me spill my desparation for romance on the page. I hate you. I love you. I don't believe you. I don't even know you. Shoot me. Shoot me on 8 mm. Let the emulsion burn my cigarette. Let the smoke spiral in swirls from my pouty lips through the air. And be violent. I'm violent. Passion is violent. And violence is violet. Ultaviolet.

I see my father in your eyes. When you raise your voice and threaten with your hand. I think it's your skinny ties and silly 60s hair. And it's sexy.

I take off your tie and leave on your undershirt. It's ribbed. And I feel you breathing underneath. Grand deep desparate breaths.

Shut off the lights and smoke in bed.
I could fall asleep to that sound. The chk chk chk and clk clk clk of the roll of the camera. It's a fetish thing I suppose - chiseled in my dna. everything sexual starts young whether we recognize it or not. these ideas are innate. internal. birthed. as thick, as thin as blood.
Let it bleed.

Chk chk chk. Clk clk clk. you hear it. I hear it. Close your eyes now.
We'll drown it out with the sound of the scene... I've always been a screamer.

Lo

It's Christmas time....in the ghetto....

We're in the car, my father and I, driving along Kennedy Rd. and listening to a bouncy, reggae version of 'Silver Bells'. My dad has been listening to a CD filled with similarly-interpreted versions of Christmas songs (Jingle Bells with island swing, a Rastafarian Silent Night) and I kind of take it in stride because while he doesn't know Bob Marley from a doorknob, this is exactly the kind of music he would be listening to the day before Christmas Eve.

"Do you like this music?" he asks me after one of our many long silences.

"Uh...it's funny," I say.

"I got it from the black guy at the store. He sells them. I think he is the one singing."

"The black guy?" (Note: my dad works at an Asian supermarket in Brampt on that has a large Jamaican clientele and, so far as I know, an all-Asian workforce, so I'm wondering if there is either one specific black guy who works there, or else my dad is showcasing a Vietnamese knack for confusing his definite articles. I'm not even going to acknowledge any racist implications because I know there aren't any. Anyway...)

My dad says: "He set up a stand in the store and sells his music. He gave me a bunch of these CDs."

Long pause. Now we're a block away from our house.

"He gave you a bunch of THIS specific CD? Why?"

My dad shrugs. "I don't know. He's a nice guy."

In the span of about an hour, this and maybe another two minutes worth of material is all that we say to each other. If you find that sad, don't. There is nothing else to say. All the pertinent details are already known. I know that he will listen to this CD on his drive to work even after Christmas without thinking about it. One day he will get fed up with it (probably right after New Year's), turn it off and switch to 680 News or else some random song on the FM. He will probably give a few of those CDs away at our Christmas party raffle on Friday and if my cousin K gets one, she'll want to listen to it right away and laugh that braying, hysterical laugh of hers that's always more funny than anything she's laughing at. The CD will end up under car seats, in junk drawers, in basement crawl spaces gathering dust and cardboard shavings. There will be a copy kept at the supermarket (on the management office's communal CD rack, probably between Paris by Night 17 and God knows) to be played every holiday season until it is lost or too scratched or replaced with something else. And the black guy who gave it to my dad will take down his booth at the end of the holiday season and every time he comes in or passes by, he will say hi to my dad and be extra friendly to him because that's the kind of response my dad inspires in strangers.

Now I don't know if these things will happen exactly as I describe them, but I imagine that the actual events will be darn close. I guess I'm telling you all of this so that I don't take this kind of instinct for granted, just to reassure myself that although I often find my family mysterious and cruel, there are some details that are imprinted in my mental database that will always be there. Just like how the texture of snow is embedded in my skin and the smell of butter in a hot skill recalled by my nose, these are things that you just know. It kind of seems like a minor victory, but when we're swimming in so much that is unknowable, isn't it kind of great, kind of comforting, to feel like we own certain facts to such a degree that we can get at them without working at all? I think so.

Anyway, Merry Christmas.


Yours,

I


Mistletoe berries are poisonous.

A conversation.

It’s 8:30 pm on a Tuesday. It’s a different kind of Tuesday - and I say that because it’s the Tuesday before Christmas Eve suddenly making this day not feel like every other mundane weekday, but one that’s infused with emotion. Hyper. Almost tense but in a good way.

The bar at the Rex is astir. A local favourite among Welland’s watering holes and pizza ovens, conceived from sweet love in the 1960s.

I’m sitting at the bar on one of those tall stools, with a leather cushion and brass buttons. My eyes are heavy and I feel warm inside. Insulated by the numbing buzz of Frangelico. “Frangelico, I love you,” I whisper to myself. I hold up my tumbler and whisper again, “Frangelico... I love you” puckering my lips and kissing the rim, as if we’re the only lonely in the room. Me and my liqueur in good company.

And we are in good company. Just waiting.

Finally he’s out of the bathroom and I see him from across the way, emerging from the hall. Look at him, so sharp in that button-down, in those jeans. He stops and says hi to an old friend. I can’t quite hear what he’s saying, but I bet it has something to do with the ponies on TV. About Blind Magic and Lucky Number Nine. “Beautiful breeds. I gotta dime and a half on this race,” I imagine him saying with that accent of his. That working class accent that makes me feel as warm as the Frangelico.

I love seeing him smile. I love the corners of his eyes, and how the lowlights above the bar glint in the center of his pupil. A twinkle. And then another. I can drown in those sad blue eyes.

Side by side, our arms brush against each other. Our elbows resting on the bar. Manners are not an issue with my man, and that’s only the base of the iceberg when it comes to why I love him. It’s actually below the base... it’s that deathly frozen part submerged miles deep within the sea. The sea, like the color of his eyes. You can just trust a person's eyes.

Bella Donna is playing on the juke box and all I’m wondering is when he’s finally going to talk to me about what he wanted to talk to me about. ANd what did he want to talk to me about? This is not usually how it goes. Usually I talk. He listens. I talk. He dreams. I talk. And he remembers.

But quiet he remains. Until...

“Eh, one more,” he says to the bartender, and nods to something 40 %. He never really knows when I’m drunk, but I’m drunk. And at this point I just like sitting with him. Feeling the warmth radiate from his skin, smelling the tobacco and the whiskey seeping from every pore on his five oclock shadow. If there was one scent that reminds me of him it’s tobacco and whiskey... And olive oil. Three scents.

And in that moment I become overwhelmingly sad at the realization that I might not be able to sit next to him like this again. No. That one day there will be a time where we won’t be able to sit together like this and just exist together. Breathing the same breath, feeling the same warmth, sharing the same drink. Same blood. Same body.

And then he turns to me and sees my tears. Sees my tears streaming down my cheeks, which are swelling up from the salt, and I look like a kid again. Mascara watering from my bottom eyelashes, melting away any attempt I made at womanhood.

He’s sad because I’m sad. And he knows why I’m sad without even asking, I can tell. Because I’m always sad about this. Since we both lost someone, we carry around this overwhelming fear that another person we love the most will leave too and never come back. We carry it in our heart - a ball and chain wrapped around the organ weighting us down. Our very own internal jail cell holding us captive, punishing past decisions.

“Dad,” I say, “You’re my best friend.”

And then he turns to me. He nods.

“You should go,” he says. “I think you should go.”

And that’s it. He holds up his glass as if to say, don’t beat yourself up kid. I clink mine with his and take a drink. A little pours down from the corner of my mouth, but I’m numb to the burn. The next time I drink I’ll be alone in New York.

xoLo

Christmas tradition: Violent films.

Deadbeat Cookery - Spicy Face Pasta

For all of you herbal enthusiasts, this is a tasty, savoury way to enjoy your herbal-infused butter. Herbal.

INGREDIENTS:

pasta, frozen california mix, hot sauce, powdered cheese mix (optional), canned whole tomatoes (I like the No-Name brand stewed tomatoes, but any kind will do), salted butter, herb-infused butter, oregano, salt and pepper to taste.

Notice how there are no measurements? That's because you can put in as much of anything as you damn well want.

WHAT TO DO IN WHAT ORDER:

1. Bring pot of salted water to boil. Add pasta. I recommend using only just enough water to cover the pasta...this way you will avoid the tedious draining part before you can add the flavouring.

Nifty tip: Vegetable fusilli has the benefit of being both nutritious and colourful! You will definitely come to appreciate the second part.

2. Once pasta is done to your liking (i.e. al dente or mushymushy), add the frozen california mix.

(You can of course use any frozen vegetable you want, but ABSOLUTELY DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE use FRESH vegetables of ANY kind. This completely changes the chemistry of the recipe if you do, so God fucking help you if you do. You can use frozen peas or frozen green beans or frozen corn or even canned corn if you want to, I don't care, but if you even so much as CONSIDER throwing in a couple of fresh veggies, you might as well just stick your head in the oven because THAT'S how much it will change the recipe, I swear to God. I'm serious. This is not just some arbitrary rule I made up.)

3. Add hot sauce.

4. Add cheese sauce and/or oregano and/or salt and/or pepper.

5. Add butters. Mix well so that they melt, unless you pre-melted them in which case Good for You, Mr. or Miss Foresight! Here's a shiny fucking gold star to stick up your ass.

No, seriously, if you pre-melt the butters, that's quite impressive. Good job.

6. Simmer everything and add tomatoes. Simmer MORE!

7. Mix mix mix.

8. Pour into bowl and mangia, mangia!



There! Wasn't that easy? If you want to take it a step FURTHER and make this banquet-hall certifiable, you can throw it into a loaf pan, cover with bread crumbs or cheese or bacon or more FROZEN vegetables and bung it in the over at 350 until it's GOLDEN BROWN or DARK BLACK, whichever you prefer. That would be a good time to disable the smoke alarm.


Yours, as always,

I


Taste test all the solar flares available.

How to knit.

There we were standing in the Dollar Emporium. In an isle that sells flashlights on one side and pregnancy tests on the other.

He was in a white tshirt, Fruit of the Loom with holes in the seems. And only a scarf flung around his neck to keep him warm. I was wearing my Zia Marie's petticoat. It was a size too big, but furry on the inside. It was winter afterall.

My eyes were focused on that scarf. So many little frays, so many bubbling loops where the needle strayed from pattern one too many times. Who made it, I wondered...

I couldn't take my eyes off of it. And not because it was beautiful, even though it was. It was because I couldn't raise my eyes. I couldn't meet his. A physical ethereal force wanted me to look up...and I was trying. He was going on about a time he bought prophylactics from an A&P and his mother found the receipt in the trash. So she snooped around his room, and behold, found the condoms in the first drawer she looked in.

"In a sock drawer at thirteen? How much of a cliche are you?" That's all I thought for a fleeting moment, but didn't dare say a word. I wanted the topic as far from anything that would make him think of my vagina. Or what I would look like without clothes on. Smell like... feel like...Oh Mother Mary help me.

He grabbed a yo-yo off the shelf. And finally we rounded the corner and there were the christmas decorations. I went on ahead, straight to the little glittery ornaments. I really did have a task.

Everything was made in Taiwan. But it was all I could afford. Plastic reindeer. Little horns. A holly green, or two. I had ten dollars that I took from the pocket of my father's Levi's earlier that morning.

I couldn't decide.

Finally, he came up beside me and put his hand on my shoulder, which I felt everywhere but.

He pointed over to the side, and picked up an ornament. A cherub.

Ha, cherubs. My mom used to pronounce them "cherUBE." I let out a giggle and put 5 in my basket. These would do.

"Who do you identify most with? Ebenezer Scrooge or Tiny Tim?"

It was out of nowhere, you see, but I just said it. The first thing that popped into my head.

He turns to me and says, “I’d consider myself a healthy balance of both.”

And then I knew.

And then he took me home.

But not my actual home.

xoLo

Whether it's my body, brain, or my craft, exercise makes me feel really good...

Alien

I'm very happy.

:)

Lo.

The first step to recovery is to admit that you have not failed anyone

There's a part of me who wants to beg forgiveness for my ungenerous moments. That part of me is a pussy. Fuck generosity.

My problem is that what I mistake for generosity is actually a laying down of arms, of putting down the Magnum, lying on the sidewalk and being trampled by dirty soccer cleats. The world is full of ungenerous people, but the world is equally full of people who can't tell a good deed from a soft back, a moment of empathy from a fear of being yourself. I feel (and this is just a feeling, an uneducated opinion) that, in a way, Hilary Clinton was right: young people are lazy. Not in that they don't work hard at school or at their jobs. On the contrary, quite a few of us are almost pathologically ambitious, but it's not that kind of laziness that plagues us. It is an inner laziness, a spiritual laziness, an abject refusal to dig deep and question where our ideologies of self come from. Why do we feel the way we do? Why do we hate ourselves? Why is the ground beneath us made of such fine, crumbling sand?

There are often times where I watch people and I wonder if they see themselves for how they really are. This is presumptive of me, because of course who am I to judge someone's authenticity? But a lack of authenticity stinks of fear so strong you can feel it burn in your chest with pity or impatience depending on your mood. This is the kind of fear that leads us to be self-indulgent when it comes to the attention of others, that leads to indecision, inconsideration, incomplete answers to the question "Well, what do you want?" What do YOU want? Do you want status, a full Rolodex, a big loft and used condoms littering your walk-in closet? Well, I'll tell you, you can have them. No sweat. Well, a little sweat. And some time. But you will have them, if you want them. And there is no one in the world who is allowed to tell you that those are petty desires. But just because you've satisfied a desire does mean that you have filled yourself in any way.

Because there is a difference between Wanting and wanting. The difference is that the one kind slips into your veins so sneakily you might as well be breathing it; and the other is real. You Want that job, those tits, that man, whatever. But what you want is deeper, something you desire so badly that it becomes sacred and you don't say it because in a way it is obvious and in another way it doesn't need to be said. It is this desire that makes us human and relatable, but for whatever reason we've buried this want and adorned its casket with useless shit. We've distanced ourselves from our true heart's desire, and we are dying in loneliness because of it. The only real solution is to dig for it, not to placate ourselves, but to suffer in the name of discovering our name.

Make no mistake: this is hard work, it will not come easy, but when it does (or so I am promised) you will feel a peace that comes with true freedom. Someone out there is going to say "I know what I want. I want to be happy." That's barely scratching the surface. This is not a cry for treatises, it is a cry for introspection, not a cry for destinations but for journeys. And silent ones at that. Your want is silent, it is a feeling and I imagine you will know it when you know it. I will end with a thought I stole (and shall now paraphrase) off a chalkboard in front of a yoga studio:

Who would I be without this recurring thought?


Ungenerously yours,

I


If I were jar, I would be filled with...golfishes. The live ones, not the crackers.

NightBITCH before XMAS

What's it like to look like you're from Nightmare Before Christmas everyday of your life? Stockings and bows and smokey charcoal eyeliner. The expensive kind. What do you look like under there?

What do you look like when you have sex? Doesn't your caked on makeup smear? What does your cum face look like? I'd be scared. Wouldn't you be scared having that raccoon bobbing over you... (or under you... whichever position you so incline...) Oh man, what do you look like in the morning? Remind me to replace my pillow cases if we ever find ourselves having sex in my bedroom. I imagine the dry cleaning costs are atrocious. Do you excuse yourself to wash your face? I'm not being mean. I'm just curious.

What's with these fetishes for grown up broads playing the little, lonely girl?

I stick a finger in my mouth and gag. GAG at the thought. Valenti's Purity Myth at example.

And why is everyone in such a hurry to shack up and play house? We're TWENTY TWO. We should be playing the field yo. We should be... we should be just starting our lives. Not settling down. Maybe some of us are more ambitious than others.

Maybe you're happy with your 9 to 5 and your stand up chap, polo wearing boyfriend and all of his pretty stacks of money. And your your lavish, indulgent, healthy parents and your bags and purses and smelly bath soaps you buy over the boarder and charge on credit. You like your life in the Niagara Falls don't you?

I'm being a bitch. I can be that sometimes. It's good to recognize one's own flaws. It's healthy.

I'm also hyper aware of everyone elses.

Lola.

B is for Birth of Christ, I is for Icicle, T is for Tinsel, C is for Candy Cane, H is for Holly

I am Daniel Day Lewis

Don't believe me? That's cool. I'll just cut you out of my life then. It's easy. I do it a lot.

We're in a world made of sand. Zillions of particles. Breakable. Fragile. Impermanent.

Come together when they're wet, fall apart when the well's run dry.

I'm happiest when I'm submersed in a project. When I'm writing something and exploring the world and everything that's fucked about it, whether it be a blog, a children's story, a script or a friggin greeting card for my boss's jewish niece. "On your Batt Mitzvah. Blessings to you and a lifetime of happiness. Mazel Tov!"

I love writing.

And it's not the way some people love it. I mean, I'm writing something and loving that something as a true artist. Not writing a spec. Not writing for personal gain...For status.... For employment.

I'm talking about writing as a form of therapy. And don't stick your nose in the air when I say writing is an artform because it is. You know what i'm talking about. Why must we all commodify and capitalize on our hearts? Some of us are just more introspective then others. Some of us are homemade juice blends fresh from the backyard apricot tree, and some of us are Tang. Diet Tang. I don't trust Tang. Tang is always confused. Always a deer in headlights. Always such a scatterbrain. Always looking for more and more ways of proving themselves as a legit refreshment. Tang talks at people, not with them. Tang doesn't realize the world does not revolve around them. Tang, you piss me off when you're not even around.

Maybe Tang really doesn't want to quench thirsts? It's surely incapable of providing healthy teeth and bones. No matter how fancy the packaging, the stuff inside is still gross. I would not recommend Tang to any of my friends, family or coworkers. Go pure or go home.

Sophie's Choice is fucking me up. I've stopped making sense. I'm pretty sure I'm ranting about Tang, all because i'm becoming soemotionally charged by watching this film. Sophie is an insane character. So well written. SO well played.

Meryl Streep is a goddess. She is ethereal. She is divine. A master of the craft. THe Art.

I wish I had some sort of divinity like she has. Some sort of prodigious air. A Daniel Day Lewis degree of insurmountable awe-inspiring ways and wonders and talent. You can't fuck someone's talent. You can only fuck someone's desperation for talent.

If I could go to the cinema and watch films by myself everyday and then think about them afterwards over an Americano, while I scribble notes in my notebook and people-watch and dwell in my self-pity... Oh how lovely the afternoons would be.

I woke up extremely thrown off this morning. My father called me in the evening and I explain to him my woes. All he has to say is the simplest of words and they put my entire being back into perspective. I trust my father. I relate to him the most in this world because he is the only person I know who is in a similar position as I am, in a weird, difficult to describe in words kind of way.

One of my greatest fears is shattered glass. Glass breaking in my palm causing the skin on my hand to bleed in tiny little pieces all over. And if we're all just particles of sand, does that mean I'm afraid of the deterioration of togetherness? The breakage of something I hold close? I've been having these vivid dreams lately. Some are your everyday Salvador Dali surreal juxtapositions. And some are real. So real that I forget when I wake up that she is gone and when I remember she is not there, the wind is knocked out of me so literally. So real that it feels like yesterday I was eight years old and collecting the loose hairs from your neck. So real that I felt the black of your bruises, the scar on your chest against my ear, the smell of your breath on my eyes and the way your body looked collapsed in the shower, again in the doorway on the linoleum, and then in the kitchen on the floor, on the pavement of the drive. The way you look when they carried you away. The glaze of your eyes looking back at me like whatever snapped inside of you took away all of your memories and your knowledge. I was no one that you knew. It came to a point that everyone around you disappeared. Your eyes filled your little face and you blinked very slowly. Yellow building in every corner. Jaundice. Fuck jaundice. And all you felt now was this overwhelming desire to die. "Please God take me away. Take me away." You prayed to die. You were dying to die. And you know what, I prayed for you to die too.

There's this moment in Sophie's Choice where Stingo reflects on his mother's death when he was an adolescent. He says he didn't love her enough. Sophie says he probably did. But you can just tell that he didn't. When you're an adolescent you waste too much time on stupid silly stupid things and stupid people made of Tang. Distracted away from what's real and what's going on right before your eyes. And then one day you wake up and it's too late. She's looking right through you and right on into the other side wishing God or the Devil or whatever the fuck is out there would take her away.

The only thing I can do now is pretend I'm Daniel Day Lewis. But I'm not going to pretend because I know I am. Or at least that's what Im going to keep telling myself. So one day others will see Daniel in me too... And maybe even she'll see it. Because for some reason, we want so badly to live life to an unbelievable degree to honor those who are no longer with us.

Signed,

Lo (DDL)

(Im Italian and highly emotional to the point of self indulgence. Forgive me, kiss me, pray for me.)

Yellow label

I love the No-Name brand
Because its labels lack nonsense
If the can says
GINGER ALE
(or, alternately,
soda au
GINGEMBRE)
then there is no question that what you'll get is
tssss!
ginger ale.
The same goes with
COLA,
Three-fruit
MARMALADE,
and, my favourite,
PANCAKE MIX.

No gimmicks or mascots
No talking toucans or ravenous rabbits or
enormously homosexual elves
To. The. Point.
No-Name
Without-a-name
Nameless.

If I had a No-Name Name
my label would read:

FEMALE, HUMAN
Contains one (1) serving
Ingredients: Water, bone, blood, muscle, fat, tissue, natural flavours
Nutritional Facts: Probably not as healthy as she could be, but you can do worse. Not a significant source of Vitamin A or Iron.
Product of Canada (with parts pre-assembled in Vietnam)
May contain traces of nuts.

On my back: everything above
only in French.

I only shoot at magic hour

The dust at dusk
Is speckled-egg blue
Like the dirt that dusts
The face of the moon

You touch the blue dust
You've drawn on your hand
Blue lines. Solid? Fiction
It's a million-dot depiction
Like a Primavera made
From hourglass sand

Sun-starved little breaths!
Worry rots the soul
Of this sunset, this cerulean
Mid-moment air
The lights starts to die out
Mid-blazing
Mid-flare
Mid-thought I stop
My wonderings, I stare
At the sky, so large so I parse
Section by section
Breath taken, knees buckled
At such dusty perfection.

-I

414 - Wisconsin (work in progress)

Sometimes I just don't believe Americans exist.

I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.



(1 minute passes.)


It's not
that I
don't
KNOW that they exist.
They exist.
I'm positive of that fact.
But facts are not beliefs, so...
while I
UNDERSTAND that
factually
there is such a place as the United States of America Ltd.
that there are inhabitants of this
factual.
nation.
and these
factual.
inhabitans.
do
, in fact,
exist....

But
belief.
That's a
WHOLE
different ballgame.


for belief is that misty-gauzy feel, that perfect cadence at the end of the movement on a foggy night
that dust you don't know sits in your lungs
that breath you lost...
....that first time you lost your mind....
.........in the blink of his eye....



Fact
, however,
is the shortest distance between
two
points.

Shut your fucking mouth

Today is the National Day of Listening (I won't specify which nation). I am going to celebrate by locking myself in my room until I go see my therapist.

I've been keeping journals for a really long time. When I was younger, whenever my brother made me mad, I went into my room and wrote 'til the paper tore under the pencil. I hated my brother. He was a piece of shit. I can't tell you how many times I wrote down 'I hate **** so fucking much I want to fucking kill him'. If I were a boy, I probably would've gotten into a lot of fists fights. But I'm not. I wasn't. I was a girl. So I ripped paper and felt the bones in my head push against my skin until I could feel my blood pressure rising. I was eight. Seven. Nine. I wasn't even into two digits and I felt such profound rage, the kind that kills people inside out.

Don't you dare believe that women are liberated. They're only liberated on paper. Here is something that I truly believe: your sisters and your mothers and your wives and your girlfriends are WARPED. They have compound history weighing down on their brains, their husbands and fathers and mothers and friends slowly indoctrinating them to the point where they are fucking crippled by the mass of hysterical thought. Time has conditioned us to believe that we are inferior until that belief has become embedded into our genetic code. Now we are born insane.

Do you disagree with me? I walk down the street with my head down so I don't feel the overwhelming urge to spit on every passer-by. You fucking people turned me into what I am and now I have to undo everything while your forsake me for whatever fucking trinket you're after that day. You are all petty, selfish, ugly fucking people and I will hate you until either I die or this thought perishes. Fuck you. FUCK YOU.

i

Virulent, vicious, viper, vanguard, vortex, vork...vork?

My elbows hurt when I type. They rest on the desk and I feel my whole weight on them. I feel bad for them, little knobbly things, they were not made, were not trained, were not prepared for such labour.

I'm in a mood. It's amazing how conscious I am of my moods, how I dissect them like fetal pigs. It isn't so much disagreeable as it is...repulsed. 'Disgusted' , a word I employ liberally. What disgusts me? God, what DOESN'T disgust me? I hate that I am being unconsciously molded into a type, that I have been unconsciously molded into a type...I take inventory of my beliefs and I find I disagree with them. There is no one to look up to, no one to emulate, just people to protect and people you're sick of protecting and people who demand your attention but say nothing new, nothing they haven't said before in another time and another place to another set of eyes and ears that have fallen off. That's infuriating. I walk around cradling and tripping over my guts, trying to fit them, clumsily, into a crevice, into a hole with some degree of order, but I rush and they all spill out again. Disgusting. What is self-awareness without self-absorption? What is self-possession without self-obsession? Must everything be so close to the surface? Must there be so much blood?

I feel too big for this head. Sometimes I empathize with my elbows. Sometimes I think I am not made for this. And other times, I think otherwise.

-I

Do you know what I'm talking about?

Quiet, shithole, the movie's starting.

You'll wash the dishes, then we'll have sex.

It's American Thanksgiving. And although I am not American, today I've been constantly thinking about what I am thankful for. Most of all, I am thankful for that invisible, ethereal force of nature that is helping me do the right things at the right time in front of the right people. I am thankful for the current circumstances that compound my life. (And as a side note - I am incredibly thankful for my newest best girlfriend SMASH. She's intelligent and witty and as a friend quoted so eloquently, "she drinks whiskey like a champ";)

Something else that's on my mind? I don't want a boyfriend. And even more, I don't want to be anyone's girlfriend. I'm too much of a flaming feminist to revel in the idea of being the possessive to a male pronoun.

HOWEVER... there are some special and sweet and (excuse me while I make myself hurl) yummy dudes that make me melt when they describe these scenarios of what it can be like to be with someone.

I wonder if I can be with someone without "being there's." Or be with someone without us being each other's? Without having to talk all the time. Or be exclusive. Can't we just be with each other when we want to be?

I know what you're thinking...

It would get complicated right? It would never be able to work right? It'll get messy. There'll be heartache and negative thoughts, and other chics would definitely not approve.... of me with this guy. Of me and my flirtatious ways in general.

Back to Harry and Sally all things romantic go... Can men and women not only not just be friends.... but can they not have a casual intimate relationship without feelings and attachment not getting in the way?(excuse the double/triple negative).

C'est la fucking vie I suppose.

But I can see it. Can't you see it? It's so vivid and beautiful. And again, nauseatingly romantic with our hippie, barefoot, long haired, constant coitus, kind of ways.

So thank you (to whomever the Americans give thanks to... God?) Thank you for sweet boys... and hippie daydreams... and thank you for my imagination and how particularly overactive it's been lately :) Thank you.

Lola

*Drink of choice: Special Old.

I could fall in love with that fire escape

It's fair to assume that the mass of North Americans consider something like receiving extra sprinkles or hot fudge on their sundae, at no extra charge, as somewhat of a delight. It puts a smile on their face no doubt, a little extra spring in their step. That is, it is fair to assume, not only the unlikely kindness of the overworked and underpaid adolescent server, but also the additional sugary goodness would improve said North American's day. This happens to me all of the time. And like a flick of a switch, a smile appears on my face, and I am overwhelmed with the most loving warmth.

It's the little things that make my day. And yes, the changes of my mood from gloomy to happy are rapid, but my bipolarity is not the point I'm trying to explore here, it's that little things are meaningful and can have such an incredible impact.

Des and I will soon be moving out of our current humble abode we call "Lord Dovercourt" and into a new place. It's quaint, cozy, lovely really. If it had a name, it'd be something like Lucy or Margine. But there's this window off the kitchen/living room that looks out to the fire escape - the brick walls of the building, and a maze of rusted metal stairs. As I sat facing this window signing the lease yesterday, I glanced out and suddenly I was in a trance. I was so incredibly inspired and my whole life flashed before my eyes, all because of these brick walls and this rather dangerous looking fire escape. I saw snow building up on the edges. I saw birds perched upon the rail. I saw a man. A handsome man without a face, that I would meet an apartment over and fall madly in love with. I saw us on a rug in front of a fire wearing ironic sweaters and listening to blue grass. Or even better, Christmas songs! And it smells like apple pie. But it would only last as long as a daydream, so that I wouldn't get bored, and it wouldn't turn sour. Just the way I like it.

"I could fall in love with that fire escape," I thought to myself in this daze.

That evening I went to the library. Another place that makes me fall in love with everything and everyone around me. Books are the sexiest thing on the planet. I want to write a million. A million children's stories to share with the world. Mother's are sexy. I take back every negative thing I said about mom bodies. They rock my world.

Anyways, Inari and I were discussing romance, as we often do in our yellow kitchen. And I was reading about a love story between an author and an illustrator. And it delighted me so much. I thought, "that's perfect... that's exactly what I want." And she asked, "Which would you be?" (given this highly unlikely but extremely appealing partnership would happen?")

That's easy, I thought. I would be the writer... he the illustrator. And we'd have the most insane conversations and adventures and sexual escapades. Can you imagine that? Waking up in a studio in Greenwich Village and writing while your foxy illustrator husband illustrates? Or in some shack on the beach in Southern California? Or some ranch in the Midwest? Or a cottage up North?

These daydreams literally make my hair stand on end. I literally feel my blood flowing through my veins. "Is this healthy," I think to myself, "to react to such imaginary scenarios, or inanimate objects with such intense stimulation?" I don't care if it is or if it isn't, because these are the moments I look forward to the most. The moments of inspiration.

I'm one of those people you see out in public, casually making their way to whatever destination, and suddenly you'll see them smile huge, or laugh out loud. And they're all by themselves. You're thinking, "CRAZZZZZZy lady!." But you know what I'm thinking? I'd be thinking of some random image or memory that pops into my head... and I can't help but react.

Sometimes when it gets really quiet and all I have are my thoughts, I think of the books I read as a kid... and it just feels comfortable. It feels like sitting by a window a few days before Christmas, with a mug of tea warming my palms, and I'm watching the snow fall out on the fire escape... and letting my thoughts wander around. And then there's a knock at the door... Am I expecting someone? Maybe. Maybe not. But in this instance, knocks on the doors are delightful. The kind of delight you feel when you and your pops are at Coney Island and the lines are long, but suddenly an overworked and underpaid kid gives you your sundae with extra sprinkles, a little more chocolate sauce, and hell a goddamn cherry on top. And all you wanna do is smile like some goof. And that's what I do. A lot.

xoLola.

I had this Uncle, a great Uncle, we called him "ZseZse New York." I thought he owned the city. That memory makes me smile

Disgust - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

I'm going off birth control.

I've been on it for almost 4 months now and it's making me feel worse and worse everyday.

I flip and I flop. One minute I rule the world, the next I feel my love handles spilling over my once beautifully fitting skinny jeans and I feel absolutely disgusting.

Do you know what it's like to feel disgusting?

Fuck voluptuous women's bodies. Fuck child bearing hips. Fuck bigger boobs.

Fuck big is beautiful.

The only reason you embraced these changes with me was because you were still a size 2.

Shallow I may seem, but it's only because I'm angry. Angry with myself. How did I let this happen??? HOW!

Women are innately enslaved to themselves and it's been like that for centuries. Enslaved to our own standards. Our own ideals. But I like my standards. I like what I think is beautiful. But what I think is beautiful is not necessarily the way I want to look. I don't want to be able to feel my body when I move. I want to feel that comfort I once felt when I sat on a couch and wasn't worried about how much bigger I looked because my FAT was spread over the cushions.

Since when did I become the biggest person in the room? Since when did I become the woman who would cause offense if wearing a bikini in public? Since I started Alesse that's when.

Girls are vicious. Absolutely vicious. I know how they think and compare. "Don't worry about her. She's fat." "You're wayyyyy hotter than his new chic. See the size of those thighs?" "That girl shouldn't be allowed to wear jeans like that." "Sorry we don't make dresses over a 5." "Look at her scarfing down carbs like they;re going out of style. Take a moment to breathe." Oh and the infamous, "He can do so much better."

SHUT UP.

Why are MEN at the center of all the issues women have with each other? FOR SERIOUS. Why am I even on birth control? I don't even have sex. Not the kind that involves another partner anyways. I'm much too insecure about my body for that.

I've resisted the temptation to stop taking the pills for long enough. I've resisted giving up. "I've come this far," I thought. "It will only be a matter of time."

It is afterall, some sort of rite of passage, right?

I thought the side effects would eventually regulate. I thought the 20 pounds (!!!!) and the cravings would go away. But they haven't. And I'm sick of this.

I want my self-control back. I want my unshakable discipline.

For too long I've hid the fact that my size and my body bothers me. It bothers me. Think what you will. Think I'm shallow. Think I'm weak. But I'm not. Because every other person scrutinizes the way they look. So why can't I?

Or even more, why do I think I can't? Who puts this pressure on me to appear like I am a certain way, who doesn't care about "trivial things"? That I am beyond petty self-involved issues? Because I'm not. I'm a human being!

I suppose it's no one other than myself.

So for that I apologize. To me.

And to you, If it ever felt like I was blaming you for the pressure.

-Lo

I wish I was never made fun as a child. I wish I was never called fat. I wish you never called me a "fat ass." You know how that feels? Disgusting.

But it happened. And things happen for a reason. I strongly believe that.

And take away all of my petty issues, and really I wouldn't want my life on any other path.

A stretched moment. A selected memory. A scary dream. A sad reality.

Reading provided by my yoga instructor:

“I relax my consciousness. I unset my heart. I wear the world as a loose garment. I learn to dance with grace on the constantly shifting carpet.”

A stretched moment.

On my inner thigh there is a stretch mark.

Where did you get that cut?

A cut? Is he serious? I lie, because I’m embarrassed.

I don’t remember.

I think you do, he says.

I think it’s one of those doctor ones. Probably from yanking me out of the womb.

Wouldn’t that be on your head?

Oh… uh, yeah. Good God just let it drop.

Well… it’s from when I was smaller.

And that much is true.

A selected memory.

In the vestibule of Scotiabank he pulls back, stopping to wonder why my lips taste salty. How easily the past hour has been forgotten, where I cried and asked desperately to be shown genuine affection.

A scary dream.

Two weeks into the future, and me and some peeps are having drinks at Future’s before my film screens. He shows up, looking mad and purposeful. I can’t even draw, but I can render the likeness of his face. I can easily hear how his voice would sound saying words he’s never said.

He says with a hint of madness ,“So I’m a bastard? Is that what you’re telling everyone?” He sounds furious, but I’m certain his face is distorted by miserable torment (“I fucked him up good,” I think... kinda pleased actually).

He’s close and squeezing my shoulders to a point where I start to panic and think “He’s a psychopath. OH MY GOD he’s going to kill me!!!” My dream brain quickly corrects itself, assuring me that I know he couldn’t be a killer. But then immediately counter that assurance with, “Why not? He lied about everything else.” Which is when he leans in and kisses me harshly. I’m offended. My face goes screwy. Hot with fury. HOW DARE HE PULL THIS SHIT, I think. But I feel thrilled. So INCREDIBLY thrilled as I am able to think the one question I know in reality I will never again get to think...

What does the kiss mean?

A sad reality.

I wake up, and I can hear the mouse rustling around. It just barely registers because my face is still warm and there are tears streaming down it... and just like that, two weeks be damned, it might as well have all happened yesterday.

Reset.

“I relax my consciousness. I unset my heart. I wear the world as a loose garment. I learn to dance with grace on the constantly shifting carpet.”

-Des.

If I were a yoga posture, I would be... child's pose.

Number withheld

Do you ever find that there are days when it is easier to talk about sex than it is about love? Easier in the sense that one seems almost weightless and silly and the other is like a secret, bold and almost shamefully noble my-heart-cannot-heave stuff. Overwhelming emotion, tears in your eyes for no good reason that you're likely to call it hormonal and leave it at that.

I like those days. Makes me feel alive.


-I



There's no such thing as a guilty pleasure. There's no such thing as a guilty pleasure. There's no such thing as a guilty pleasure...there's no such....

I just had

the BEST night.

think it and it will come true.

Friday the 13th and you'll love me

High school crushes beware. You never loved me then, but you may love me now.

You probably won't... but you might!

And how fulfilling would it be in that typical Hallmark movie-of-the-week way, if you did fall in love with me tomorrow night. Fall in love REAL HARD.

Oh - the twist. This time it's my turn to end up in the closet on the phone with some other older attractive guy that I accidentally forgot to tell you I'm dating. And you'll overhear. And be heartbroken. Aww.

*Shoulder shrug.* Woops.

I'll turn to leave. Leave you behind forever. And you can't help but stare at my beautiful hair caressing my shoulders. Hair you never once considered seriously before.

Hair you'll never get to touch with your hands. Hair that I get to touch ALLLLLLLL the time. And I'll touch it now... I'll touch it as you're watching. It's killing you right?

And all you can think is, "I'm a douche bag."

Because you are.

xoLo

We do have magical powers! We do! Think and it will come true!

Get Rich or Die Trying

Are you deluded? No one's going to pick you out of a crowd and make you king.

It takes YEARS to make it. That shouldn't freak you out. Don't be stupid.

It takes courage to work hard and steady and prove that you are good at what you want to do. Patience. You will get yours in time.

Don't spread yourself too thin. And be courageous.

Note to self: there are 6,692,030,277 other people in this world. And they all think they're special too.

-lo

Carrie Bradshaw's Nipples

Considering the name of this blog, I feel like I need to draw some attention to the former TV show from which we swiped and remixed our header.

Sex and the City, the show that taught millions of women everywhere that you no matter how old you are or how well your career is going or how fabulous (to use their vernacular) your wardrobe, you are never going to outgrow your insecurities. I've finally gotten around to watching the series, after being mildly tickled by the movie and I gotta say...these women are idiots. Fucking IDIOTS. I'm only on season two, so it could be that their shallow bantering is dated (I guess women in the late nineties had no sense of selves), but yeah...IDIOTS. IDIOTS. IDIOTS. I'm sickened. I'm saddened. I'm thinking "How can Sarah Jessica Parker afford $2000 strappy heels but can't find it in herself to put on a bra?"

The overaching theme seems to be 101 Reasons You Can't Be Happy Without a Man. What happened to empowerment? What happened to loving thyself? What happened to it NOT being ok to say things like "If you own an apartment and he doesn't, then it disrupts the power structure." They make relationships sound like politics, when they should be about empathy and self-knowledge. I guess there's someone out there who thinks that's just idealistic psycho-babble. That someone is an asshole.

Should I feel happy that, a decade later, women two decades younger than these characters have a bit more, you know, character? Or should I want to gag on the values this show is throwing out? Or should I just enjoy the pretty wardrobe and just count my lucky stars that I didn't watch it when it was in its heyday, thus exposing my soft, malleable teenaged brain to utter, utter nonsense?

And yet, I watch it. So clearly there IS something that I like. Just don't ask me what. I'm still figuring that out.

Yours,

I

The world is your oyster and your sweat is the hot sauce.

I don't want to feel this way forever.

Who do you lean on after something bad happens?

I've noticed a lot of the people around me were quick to attach themselves to someone after something really bad happened a few years back. Do they love the person they've leaned on so much more for being there during a time of such grief?

I guess I do have certain people to go to - to turn to. But all of these people have other people that need them more. That mean more. That don't appear as "strong" as I am.

This is how my dad must feel. He only has himself to take care of himself. He only has himself.

I just feel this weight on my heart sometimes. And I think to myself, "how did this happen?" It's not like I need sympathy because I don't. I like my life... a lot! But it's like nobody's even willing to sympathize. Nobody knows how. Nobody wants to or cares to. It's ok, though. Because I don't need it.

Think about it. What if this happened to you. Huge, right? BIG, right? You feel like you would die, right? But you won't. Trust me.

You'll feel almost... free. Or... invincible.

But I don't want you to think such thoughts. So don't even imagine what it would be like for one second!

I guess what's really on my mind is that it makes me sad and extraordinarily curious why everyone else has someone so special to lean on - who's there for them so genuinely... but I don't. Like your puzzle piece that just fits. That just gets you, selflessly.

I just want to meet someone selfless. It will restore my faith in the world. In destiny. Longevity.

Will I find them? Will they appear, in time?

In time: The answer to everything. The cure-all to everything.

And yet, so frustrating.

Lola

If I was a christmas tree ornament I'd be a popsicle stick reindeer that says "To Mom."

Satisfaction is the DEATH of desire.

Isn't it?

Taking your bra off after a long day, and oh, how free it feels.

When you start to love yourself, in an un-selfinvolved kind of way - like not cringe at the things you say. Or you don't hide your interests out of fear that other people will turn their nose up at you, or grimace or something - it's freeing.

When you start to like your persona, it's like fulfillment. You don't have to buy anything or search for anything, because you feel "cool" as silly as that sounds. Cool with yourself. Cool in your skin.

Breathing becomes easier. Like tearing off your underwire after a hard day's work, except in more of an emotional way, than a physical experience. But, I suppose it's a physical experience as well. It's comfort. And comfort is physical.

And you may question, like I often do, that liking your "persona" isn't actually liking the real you because persona is: you + substance, you + material, you + trends. But YOU are still there. PERSON is still a part of persona.

The moment you look around and realize... you're happy being and looking like the you, you are, even the you you crafted and learned to be, rather than desiring to be or look like any other chic or dude around you... it's like smiles all around.

Smiles are like sunshine. Smiles are a breath of fresh air.

Who made sorrow cool, anyways?

lola

It's called "Ewok Village Sex" and it will blow your mind.

Genophobia: (n) A fear of sexual relations.

Erotophobia: (n) A fear of sexual relations; physical love.

"Physical love."

"Love."

Hmm....

How do you know when a fear you have is an actual issue? A legit phobia that makes your head spin in circles, and your attitude sexually apathetic as a defense mechanism?

It's not so much the risk involved that I fear, or the fear of losing a friend, or physical pain, or whatever have you. It's gotta be something else. Something deeper. This I'm sure.

Maybe it's the vulnerability. The fear of feeling something so strong in the moment, and then not feeling anything right after. Or the next day. I guess what I'm really saying, is that I fear I actually do have those feelings towards sexuality stereotypical of a man. Why is that such a bad thing? I guess that's what a Maneater is. But I'm not a maneater. Which is why my feelings create conflict between my head, my heart and my hormones. The 3 H's. Hell.

Or maybe that's not it at all. Maybe I value sexuality too much. Do I?

Do you think that's a bad thing?

I don't think it's a bad thing. I just think it's my thing.

My thing, to myself. For myself. But in an unselfish kind of way.

There's nothing better than the feelings I have for friends - with friends. There is no having of the sex with friends (well with my friends anyways). The focus is just on having good times together. Making "a night."

Picture this. There's a bunch of us. Friends. We decide to go wander the forests of Ewok village. I think it's some sort of amusement park that's like a recreation of Ewok village in Star Wars.

Anyways, a few of us wander off, and we find a girl's purse. Some urbanite Asian chic who we saw just ahead. She must of lost it. That sucks... for her. But we're a little hazy so instead of returning it... we go through it. Not for money. Just to fulfill our curiosity.

Inside one of us pulls out this jar of face glitter. You open it and we start throwing it around. And it shines, like, in the moonlight and stuff. And the colors start to blur like lasers. And it's crazy. And we laugh. Maybe we took ecstasy. I don't know. We're foolish sometimes. But it's fun. So fun.

But why is it fun? Is it because I want to flirt with one of you? Is it because a few of us wandered off to be alone and touch and give each other adolescent hickeys and handjobs and stuff?

So is it because of the sexual tension?

But I thought the fun part of being with friends is that there was nothing sexual about it? That we don't have to worry about all the sex and the tension and that perplexing gaze?

That's wrong. There's always something sexual about every situation involving sexes that are attracted to each other - whether opposite, or the same.

And it all goes back to that theme in When Harry Met Sally. That iconic, heavyset question about men and women and if they can truly, sincerely, HONEST TO GODLY be friends without at least ONE of them thinking of their friend AT ONE POINT in a sexual way.

I think it's true.

So much for getting high in Ewok Village on a platonic level. But if it was all platonic... would it be just as fun? I don't think so.

Does having a crush on someone you're hanging out with, make it all the more exciting, even if nothing happens?

I think it does.

xoLO

So, who have you undressed with your eyes lately?

410

Lada Gaga is ridiculous, but fascinating. She's insane. I admire her the way I admire Asia Argento...these crazy broads who are crazily talented in really weird ways.

-I

Water found on the moon

June whatever, 2008 (FUCK ALL p.m)

Yes. There is a girl. I wasn't big enough to ask for her name. He said that he "loves hanging out with me", he "loves my mind" and that he STILL wants to go to &&&& with me. But he doesn't want a romantic relationship and that he's sort of seeing this girl and that's when that piece died inside of me. You know, the one in my chest.

I still like him. A lot. And fuck, does it hurt. And damn! Do I feel ugly and unloved and unspecial. And shit, did I cry. I cried and I cried and I sobbed and I asked God, angrily, "Did I not know it? Did I not see it? And did I not say, please, let me be wrong?"

And no. I wasn't wrong.

I was right. I was RIGHT. And I lied anyway. Because being wrong was all I wanted, ignoring this gorgeous mind that ##### so loves. Well...enough of that shit. I was right. ANd self-deception is for assholes. And I am not an asshole. At least, I am no longer an asshole.

So it still stings and what I've learned rom my misadventures is that the stinging goes away. And I'm not going to wallow in it. Because ther really is one choice in this whole affair and that is that you mourn and then you recover...and the more time you do this, the more you realize how boring the mourning part is. And that recovery is where it's at. And that there is so much more fun in the part that isn't pining for what you can't have.

Ugh. I should stop this before I grow some character.

July 9th, 2008 (8:18 p.m.)

I really wish I had written down the date of the last entry. As it stands, I have no idea how much time has passed since I've seen him. I'd say, a month, if not more. Fuck.

I'm going though an over-eating phase. It just started, now that I've been through a not-eating + exercise phase. Three english muffins and a hand-full of malt balls doesn't seem like a lot, but I feel fucking bloated. I think I'm going to get my period soon. Joy. Seriously.

My job...well, it's not great, it just doesn't suck like the flames of hell. Bah. Whatever. I'm sleepy. I'm going to sleep.

(9:56 p.m.)

I didn't end up going to sleep. I went and bought wine instead.

July 11th, 2008 (8:30 a.m.)

Of the things in my life I don't regret the most (?) [sic] yesterday is way u on the list. Instead of going to my Pop Culture East and West class, I went to the Indigo at the Manulife Centre and saw David Sedaris read. And he signed my copy of 'When You Are Engulfed in Flames'. In it, he wrote:

"To Inari,
Diabete is for lovers.
-David Sedaris."

It was, in a word, thrilling.

Woke up in the middle of the night, deeply upset. I think I had been having a dream about ####, but I can't remember if it was a bad dream or a good dream from which I disappointingly woke up.

Today is the first da I can expect a letter. It will be torturous.

p.s. If you want to kill anybody's orgasm, say you're Dutch.


July 13th, 2008 (1:38 a.m.)

Being high...kinda blows. A lot of the time pot is not my drug. There, done and done. I'm too insecure to be a pothead.

God I miss ####. I miss how %%%%% used to be, before he got all morose and political. Oh, yes, though...####. Miss him. Miss him. Misshim.....


Poor cow.

-I


Dead fish do not float during stormy weather.

You’re the H1N1 vaccine, but he’s just a sneeze.

I replied to a Craigslist advert for a production assistant gig, and I got the very honest reply that I was “overqualified”.

Would that not be the perfect thing that a would-not-be potential lover could tell you?

“I’ve reviewed your application, and honestly, I think you’re a bit overqualified to be my girlfriend. You see I lack the ability to commit. I’m addicted to sex, and I couldn’t care less if it’s with my girlfriend, good friend, or stranger (especially when I’m shitfaced). Vulnerability scares me, and I’ll mistake your ability to produce feelings for you just being some psycho bitch.

I see here that you are willing to always be there for me. You’re open to love, and you hope for the best of all situations. You might even get upset if I cheat on you.

Really, right now I’m just looking for a gopher to run some errands. To shine my shoes, and my dick.

I wish you the best of luck in your girlfriend career.”

Yep. It’s like when the CFC says “We were impressed with your application, but you’re the youngest [white, Toronto-residing] person we interviewed. It’s bittersweet rejection.

Except when instead of “overqualified” the person you love more than anything says “I will never love you.”

That medicine is just damn bitter. It’s actually quite disgusting.

Desiree Thrash

I am not a bitter person... I am not a bitter person... I am...

I remember our first kiss...his beard and the cats circling our ankles

Maggie Gyllenhaal's character in 'Stranger than Fiction' is why I love to bake.

No. My first cookbook was a children's guide to baking that showed you how to make bear-shaped bread buns and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

No. That brownie recipe.

I have existential anxiety. My existence makes me anxious. My authenticity is always in question. And the people I love break my heart every day. No wonder nobody makes it out of this crazy world alive. Let's aim a little higher than mere tolerance and say it like it is: I will die happy the day I feel true empathy, when I meet that person who answers 'Do we speak the same language? Do you hear me?' with a resounding 'Yes. Very much so.'

What are you, total cocoa puffs?

Just chill, man. Just chill.


Yours,

I


If I were some metaphysical construct, I would be....subtext. Whoa.

I've got a flask inside my pocket...

...we can share it on the train.

I. Can't. Stop. Thinking.

I. Can't. Stop. Imagining.

I. Can't.

I. Can.

I.

Will.

Fantasize.

As.

Much.

As.

I.

Want.

TO!

xo

This is a reminder to LO that infatuation isn't real. It's just an illusion.

Or is it more than me wanting your pheromones?

Psycho

Being a female is a double edged sword. No. It's a psycho sword edged 15 different ways used during the most bloody of combat.

I hate birth control. The only reason I'm on it is because I think it's some sort of rite of passage you have to adhere to once you hit a certain age and you're a woman. Inevitably. I'm so upset right now. I'm generally a happy person. But seriously since I started this stupid pill I put on like 20 pounds. FUCK YOU BIRTH CONTROL. FUCK YOU to all the skinny girls who were always skinny. I know this is a really shallow rant. But seriously when you're a FAT child and you become skinny and then you become fat again. It's pretty much a terrible feeling. And it doesn't help when you're sister's fucking Lady Gaga, and you're best friends are all tiny little fairies who can eat and eat and eat... and it goes I don't know, NOWHERE.

See, when something really bothers me in the morning, I just rant away on Sexless and I realize how ridiculous this problem is in comparison to the REAL problems of the world... and all of my anger about being huge suddenly fades away amidst my rage for social issues. But now I'm angry about forced prostitution, and sweatshops, and the United States of America.

Oh God. I won't. I won't go there. I won't go to the extreme again. I rather be healthy then fucked in the head. I rather be me now, then be 90 pounds or get hooked on coke or smoke cigarettes.

I thought I was supposed to be brave? Where is my bravery? Where is my goddamn mother when I need her?

Pretty Wasted Right Now

It’s all the pretty girls that you try to attract.
But your compliments are no selfless act.
What this world won’t do, is waste the pretty on you.

When things get hard, you’re sure to split.
You hide your intentions to never commit.
Don’t expect this world to waste the pretty on you.

You say your lonely, and take girls for a prize.
You repeat mistakes and dare to apologize.
Why the world isn’t due to waste its pretty on you.

A pretty girl
Could be your world
She could rub your belly when it gets too full.
I love you
would hug you
But hearts are fine china, and you’re a bull.

You never hold my hand and let the fingers link.
You pinch my thigh when you’ve had too much to drink.
Don’t ask this girl to waste the pretty on you.

You dance pressed to her, but don’t think you’ve cheat.
You send a text at midnight, and expect that we’ll meet.
Oh I’m not a girl who will waste the pretty on you.

You’ll keep your options, all the way to the nether.
Missing the beauty, we’d conquer together.
So what our world won’t do is waste any pretty on you.

I won’t waste my pretty on you.

-Des

If I were a Halloween activity... I'd be the pumpkin with my guts ripped out.

When the Sky trades the Moon for the Sun...

Do you ever want something to happen but you don't know why and you're not particularly invested in it either? Pure curiosity, pure hormonal activity is driving you towards wanting this something, most likely for distraction? Making things a little more interesting?

Earlier, I was talking about defense mechanisms. I think I can be standoffish towards something I want (to try) out of fear. Out of shyness of being on the spot. What if what I'm thinking or what I have to say isn't as interesting as my often "roguish" demeanor may suggest? What if you're really not interested in what I do...or how my day was... you're in it purely for the game? But aren't I just in it for the game too? Didn't I start this game? Or maybe I didn't? There's no way to know for sure.

Maybe I'm always so cautious of doing anything too bold because I know people talk. And I really don't want to be talked about because when you're talked about - the "you" they talk of isn't really you - it's the "you" they see and want to see with their own pair of glasses, usually fogged by subjective, really ridiculous subjective that just assumes everyone over the age of 20 wants to mess around, and more specifically - HAS messed around.

Can people just stop telling me sex "isn't" a big deal. K, that might be the case. But it's not that I think it's a "big" deal, I just don't want it. I've never wanted it. I'll want it when I want it. I think once I do something monumental - like publish a book, or get a promotion, or move to Los Angeles or New York or France (except not really France because I can't speak french) then maybe I'll want it. It'll be my reward for a job well done. I've always been work oriented. I've kind of wired myself that way. I like to work. I feel like I have purpose when I'm working. I can control it. Fix it. Shape it. Yet I can go where the wind takes me too. I often do. (And believe me, this is purely a personal thing. Im sure people a lot stronger can multi-task and juggle all sorts of escapades professional and romantic. You're probably one of them - Me on the other hand, I just haven't learned to juggle yet."

Oh and I'll freaking judge whether it's a big deal or not ok. And I kind of want it to be a big deal. Inari told me something last night that really resonated with me, regarding all of this. I was going to explain it but I just decided not to because people will read too much into it. Anyways,

I get it. Every so often the sky trades the moon for the sun. It's called "rebound." So the sun may not seem as serious and emo and as "I want to slit my wrists even though I have a rich perfect family" as the moon, but the sun is a big fiery ball of rage and it's burning. So don't get turned off if the sun's a little harder to get to. And it takes some time to feel the heat. BUt then again do I really want to be with the sky if it's been with the moon? Oh and my "be with" isn't your "be with." It's a largely more G-rated version of all you sex maniacs' meaning of "be with." So relax. It's all just make believe anyways.

I really don't do. I just think.

It's 9:52 AM in downtown Toronto. The skies are cloudy and they're calling for showers...

xo

Ramona the Brave

It's like one day I woke up and I was suddenly a C-Cup. It's bizarre how fast the elements of life change. Cells rapidly multiplying, the Earth constantly rotating on its axis. I almost wish I could feel the change at a more exponential degree - like really savor it. I want to see it move in slow motion so much that it makes my head spin. Nine one thousand little hairs standing up on my arms and back.

Sometimes even, when I'm real still, I think I can feel the Earth move underneath my feet. I feel it in my legs, my head. My balance, off-quilter for a mere moment. Like my head's hovering over my body and I see all that has changed. All that has changed so fast.

"Change is good." Isn't it? Even something that seems like a life-jolting disaster can end up being a blessing in disguise. Even death. I swear to God. I'm done with the "what ifs" and "if onlys." It's braver to live each day not worrying what could have been or what could be. I rather wake up and conquer each day and each challenge that comes in the short term, than constantly mindfucking myself with self-doubt.

I often wonder, however, if success'll come just as fast as the C-Cup - and just as sudden? One day will I wake up and be where I want to be after my 5 to 10 year plan? Somewhere fabulous where my life is my job and I love it?

I feel like I've discovered a few tactics on how to live my life more fully - how to deal with the wankers that impede on that process, and how to weed out the negative taint from all the wonder. Like I was telling Inari, there are little things we do in our everyday life that are little defense mechanisms. Life at it's most basic core is about survival right? So alot of what we do is to protect ourselves and those we love.

It's about bravery. I just want to be brave. Stare fear in the face and fuck it up, ya know?

xo Lo,

I just wrote another children's story... and if I could describe it in one word - "bravery."

Do not lose yourself in the struggle

Weird weird weird...the word has lost all meaning.

I woke up at eleven, then again at three. My life is like a quasi-surrealist documentary made by a Russian novelist who drank too much and is now circling the same sentence over and over. Everything smells like fried eggs. Marionettes are a lost art form. I started out writing a country story but everything I see is urban...city city city, country country country. I grew up in the suburbs so what the hell do I know about either of them?

I cannot list off the people I love. I don't even know who I'm angry with anymore. Why do I think too much? Am I actually a mega-introverted spazz attack or am I putting up the front because I don't know any other alternative? I sometimes wonder if I'm playing into the slot people have set up for me. I'm reading some Osho that Adele lent to me and so far it seems to be peddling in platitudes and unrealistic levels of transcendence. It's the philosophical self-help equivalent of 'Just chill. Be more chill.' Well, I am not a rainslicker. Shit doesn't slide off of me. I am a cotton hoodie, soaked to saturation and beyond. Why is that so bad? Does it make me intolerable?

I use too many metaphors. Whatever. I don't want to lose myself. I want to be authentic, real, 100% pure cotton, totally kosher, halal, Made In, Free Trade, Authorized etc. etc.

She said "Do not lose yourself in the struggle to be yourself. Go in. Go deeper. Do not be afraid."

What. The. Fuck?


-I


The whores on Jarvis are moving indoors so they can watch the rain fall and pretend to wait for someone who loves them.

Exposed Brick

I'm at work sitting in a now empty office. I'm the only one left downstairs in my department, before production closes down for the season. It feels like Christmas, and I'm working over the holidays.

I find myself staring at the inanimate objects that surround me. Empty desks. Shelves. Cardboard boxes taped along the side. And they all look sad. Why are they so sad? Who knows who'll fill this office next? Surely they won't be lonely for long. It might be the new Bruce Willis or Daniel Craig action flick... American features! So I've heard.

I guess they'll just miss us... and all the laughs.

Sitting here, I noticed for the first time today that one of the walls in this office is exposed brick. It's beautiful, but hidden around a corner. It got me athinkin' - if I was some sort of inanimate office particle, I'd be a wall. An exposed brick wall.

What would you be?

xo Lola

ps. The idea of being a "drunk girl" distastes me. Casual drinking is my new pleasure. Too many drunk broads who do stupid drunk things, and send stupid drunk txts have made drinking a juvenile gong show. What do you think?

They don't love you like I love you

'Maps' cannot be our wedding song.

Why not?

It's too heavy.

What?! It's a love song. It's the greatest love song of the twenty first century. It's the love song that will define our generation's collective sense of romance, a hipster heart made of vintage t-shirt and organic coffee and ironic poetry readings of unironic poetry......

It's not danceable. Is it slow? Is it fast? The vocals are slow and the drums are fast, so what do we do? We can't just bob! We can't JUST BOB!!!!.............................

...can't we use the acoustic version?

That would be cheating. It's gotta be the original.

Fine. Then we go with MY choice: 'I Honestly Love You' by the right honorouable Sir Olivia Newton John

NOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo....


Narrator: In the end, they did go with 'Maps'. And he was right, it was undanceable. They just ended up swaying. They looked kind of ridiculous. But they didn't notice. They didn't notice. Shadowed b the multitude of breaths stolen as they thought of that person...that person...to whom they clung, everything else was all a blur...


Yours,


I

The verb 'to fall' is appropriate...you feel like you're always falling and catching your breath.

Do you believe in Jesus?

...

Stomper: Yes I do.

Paul Kersey: Well, you're gonna meet him.

When I say I'm going to do something, you bet your ass I'm going to do it. When I make a plan, I follow through.

I don't talk for talk sake. I don't dream for distraction. Like my dad says (and simultaneously fears at the same time) I walk the walk, ya know? All his kids do.

And it takes time, effort, organization. It takes focus, loss, drive - but it also takes selflessness.

If I've been selfish at any point in the past - I apologize. Nothing good comes from being selfish. It's awful lonely.

I'm gearing up for yet another phase in my 22 year old life. I was introduced to someone last night as being "wise" for my years, and was told I was mature for my age. I think that's the best introduction I've ever had and I wish to never ever lose that combination of jovial maturity. It's dynamite.

Anyways, I've got stuff to do. And because I just said I have stuff to do - I gotta go do it. I just needed to get this off my chest I think.

xoLo.

If someone (referring to their art) asked you "What's you?" I'd respond - "Complex emotions, written in a simple way." My writing goal.