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.

Where are you when you're not here? Part deux.

Porn. Fuck. Wow. Talk about a necessary evil. Can you imagine how many psychopaths would be walking the streets if porn didn't exist? I'm sure there have been studies done about how it relieves stress...I get too caught up in the production to really pay attention to the, uh stories. I mean, on the exceptionally cheap ones, you get so hyper-aware of the fact that these people are literally making a MOVIE and that these are SETS and you start to wonder: did they have catering? Are there union rules about the limit number of erections per actor per shooting day? How much are the girls paid? How about the guys? Do they always speak to each other in super seductive voices, even crew and off-camera?

Imagine these phrases used in foreplay. If necessary, just repeat them in you super-sexiest voice:

"What's the f-stop?"

"Boom in shot."

"Marker, mark it!"

"I'm going to make this a one-take!"

"How are the levels?"

"What's the focus?"

"I dunno what that is...maybe it's feedback on her mic? Go check her lav, it might not be clipped on properly....better borrow some camera tape."

"What happened to all the camera tape?"

"There's a jam. Get the next mag."

"What's your ETA?"

"Kirk we don't have TIME for this SHOT! Change the lens and go for a punch in!"

"Let's have a 1k up and flag that 350...just a little...good."

"You need to feed your crew. I say we break for lunch in fifteen."

"CUT!"


Yours,

I

If I were a bad habit I would...always punch random strangers in the face. Then I can say 'Sorry, it's a bad habit!'

Where are you when you're not here?

I have very recently gotten addicted to French reality-TV. In particular this one called 'Secret Story', which I'm told is a lot like Big Brother, which I wouldn't know, having never seen Big Brother.

So I'm reading about it on (English) Wikipedia and, I gotta say...the rules are fucking stupid and it's ridiculously complicated. Like, everyone has a secret and you have to guess their secrets and if you do you win a thousand euros, I dunno...look it up. But that's the most idiotic game I've ever heard. Also, all the contestants look like Euro-trash underwear models. And fucking Europeans...they just behave differently...like, they're crazy. But I dunno...are North Americans crazy too? Please answer this question, I'd really like to know.

I am very, very North American. No doubt about it. I like cowboys and cows and ranches. I like root vegetables. I like East coast awesomeness and West coast...uh... I like the Pacific Ocean. I like driving on the right side of the street and I like discouraging public drunkenness. I like Mormons and Utah and Hutterites and Manitoba. I like English much more than British and I like y'all and apple pie and sports that aren't soccer and Halloween and Thanksgiving and languages that aren't French and uptightedness and personal space and donuts and processed food and whiskey from Tennessee and chicken from Kentucky and children who don't drink wine and trailer parks and black people who don't speak French...lol, jk about that last one. I like ANYONE who doesn't speak French. What a snotty fucking language.

I don't know where I am right now, but wherever it is...it's got a computer.

Imagine a search party going out to look for me and they just find me, dressed in seven layers of knit Cosby sweaters, sitting in some sleazy Internet cafe, stoned out of my mind on either drugs or insanity, continuously typing up blog posts describing what I see or think in minute detail while cosplay porn enthusiasts and WoW losers persue their geeky, obese heart's desire.


Whatever.

Yours,

I


If this post were a sign, it would be flashing neon green and yellow and maybe a bit of pink.

Bad morning

What? What? What is it? I dreamt that I found a stray cat in a public bathroom and both of its incisors were hanging by a thread of tissue, so I scooped it up and started walking to the nearest animal hospital. At some point, the cat turned into a baby. And I was trying to change my shirt at the same time, into a yellow and green t-shirt that had some kind of odd, cryptic slogan silk screened onto it but I didn't know what it was but it sounded oddly cool. Anyhow, this baby. This baby just kept clinging to me.

I woke up feeling incredibly fat. Antidepressants fucking suck. You feel so great for the first few months, then suddenly, it's orca city and thirteen-hour cat naps. I said that I wouldn't let my weight bother me, and I won't let it bother me after this post, but goddammit! It sucks. It sucks not being able to wear jeans that used to fit you. It sucks to walk around feeling like you're carrying something strapped to your mid-section, like a parasite, like a hunk of meat that doesn't belong to you. This body does not belong to me, I think. It doesn't feel right, it doesn't fit.

This is just a bad morning. Don't ask me why, what happened, nothing happened. I couldn't find my driver's license. It's somewhere in the pile of shit that is my room. Thought after thought just spirals into this funnel of bad thoughts and worse feeling. I am quietly digging myself out of this funnel. I am going to listen to This American Life and pace. Then I am going to do some light groceries. Then I will go to the library before I go to my class. It's alright. It's going to be ok.

-I


Do not shame me for how I feel.

You're so vain...

I bet you think this blog is about you?

Don't you?

Happy Birthday to the best mother in the world...

I can't sleep. And I think it's because of you.

As soon as my head hits my pillow you pop into my mind and stay there. These thoughts are not evolving, or revolutionary in any sense. They're fading thoughts. You're in my mind, but each night my visions of you are becoming less and less detailed. Now they are simply just "of you" not necessarily "about you." I see you. I don't really hear you, or feel you. But the idea of you lingers.

The "what if" scenarios are on pause, the longing for you to visit me is becoming less and less of an inner desparation.

You have become simply just a thought before I sleep.

Except sleep doesn't come easy.

But why?

What is it that I still want? What is it that I need from you? Something you cannot give, this I know.

Perhaps it's my own self-disciplining self, furious with my fading thoughts. Why must they fade?

This is a big deal. You are a big deal. I'm numb. But I wish I wasn't.

But I know you think that's what I need to carry on.

I read this and it made me feel better (whatever "better" really means.)...

Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

xoLO

kay, eye, ess, ess, eye, enn, gee

A band

of banjo, harmonica and stompin' boots on wooden floors

reminds me of you...

hillbilly music of south carolina, and I like it.

I like your beard,

your flannel shirts,

and the way you always smell like camp fires

and maple

and nicotine.

I'd have a good time in a forest,

damp

dark

drinking whiskey from the bottle...

if it was with you.

i feel almost invincible when I'm around you.

wild. no cares. just adventure.

i wish I wouldn't tire so easy anymore.

i'd have more opportunity that way...

I wonder sometimes if we'll ever kiss?

Nobody would see.

Nobody would know.

Not our friends.

Just us.

Our secret.

And our band... of banjo, harmonica and stompin' boots on wooden floors...

would write the song,

about our drunkin, secret kisses.

your beard resting against the crevice of my neck.

warm and holy.

xo

lo

i like writing moments.

Deadbeat Cookery - Vegetable Puree Soup

I've been reading and watching a lot of Nigella lately and, in between getting blindingly aroused by her British juiciness, I've been inspired to cook (check out her curves on the good ol' tube)

VEGETABLE PUREE SOUP

Last spring I went to see a naturopathic doctor to help me through what I thought was extreme stress brought on by a bad case of candida. She gave me a recipe for a detoxifying vegetable soup that was supposed to help 'cleanse' my system. The doctor turned out to be an overpriced quack and the soup tasted like hippie mush (though, in all fairness, it made me regular as clockwork...tmi?)

This recipe is inspired by the detox soup, modified for those of us who enjoy a bit of flavour along with their healthy bowel movements. It's dead easy, so go ahead and take another hit off that bowl before you start.

Ingredients: (all measurements pulled from my ass)

1 cup chopped up cabbage
2 medium-sized white potatoes, scrubbed, unpeeled and diced
1/2 medium-sized head of broccoli florets
1/2 medium-sized onion, diced
powdered split-pea soup stock to taste*

optional: garlic cloves, cream, cheese, cannabutter


1. Put all the chopped-up veggies in a big pot and cover with water. Add in the stock one tablespoon-full at a time, so the shit doesn't clump together. *I haven't specified the amount of stock to use, because it really depends on how much water you put in. Unless you're a picky little bitch, you won't mind tasting cold veggie water to determine how much flavour you want.

2. Bring to a boil.

3. Once it boils, turn the heat down to medium and give it a quick stir so nothing sticks to the bottom of the pot. The stock should have thickened the liquid by now. Let it bubble for a bit with the lid off until the potatoes feel slightly less rock-hard than when they were raw.

4. This step is a bit of a pain in the ass. Ladle the veg and stock into a blender and puree it. Your blender might not be big enough to hold all of the soup in one go, so a third recepticle will be needed to hold the pureed soup. You can always use a hand blender, but unless you have a good one, it won't be strong enough to tackle the potatoes and florets before it gives out. But hey, if technology is on your side, use it.

5. Serve the soup hot in bowls. You can garnish the top with hot sauce, parsley, oregano or, if you're feeling particularly premenstrual, some grated cheese.

6. Scoop up to mouth with spoon, taste, swallow, revel in the fact that you are not a complete waste of space if only because you can make a decent bowl of soup.



Yours,

I


If I could cook for Almanzo Wilder, I would die happy.

Empty heads are not lonely

I don't know how to classify my relationship with pot. It's very see-no-evil-speak-no-evil-turn-a-blind-eye-no-skin-off-my-teeth kind of whatever...whatever.





In the interest of full disclosure, I can assure you that this post is a 100% smoke-free flight.

Back to the issue at hand...

I like to smoke pot. Some days, I even love it. It takes me out of myself and into myself. It makes me nostalgic. It helps me sleep. And fuck! If you think you appreciate cheese now, just wait 'til you find yourself thumbing bleary-eyed through a Nigella Lawson cookbook. It's like God never made anything as soul-crushingly orgasmic as zook with cheddar.

It makes me feel good. It's one of the few things with which I have absolutely no qualms about doing alone. In fact, I PREFER it alone...lost in my thoughts, in my books, writing these ridiculous post-it notes to myself...it's fun. It does wonders for my stress. And on the few occasions where I'm not alone, I'm usually with a really good friend which is kind of like being alone in that you have no hackles, no walls or, at least, very few of them.

But. I dunno...what are my qualms with it? It's expensive. It makes me eat like a panda. And sometimes it reveals some unlovely thoughts. There are these moments where I feel that sensation you get when you catch a photo of yourself and you're shocked - SHOCKED - at how unnattractive you are...ew, is that me? Oh my God, is that my skin? Is that how people see me?

I used to get those moments a lot.

I want cheese.


Yours,

I



It's the zombie apocalypse and I'm...throwing cherry bombs at the reactor.