Mental Recessions

I write under the strict orders of A.

She wonders why I haven't spent more time on my blog since I've been spending the last 4 months creating an ass perfect dent in my couch and doing little else. I guess I've just learned that the life of a bum is insanely complicated. There's lots of sitting to do, lots of whining, lots of feeling sorry for yourself, and lots of avoiding things that you now have time to do. It's a wonder things get done in the world. I've spent 24 years of my life being incredibly busy, and telling myself I would do a million things if only I had more time. Now, all I have is time, and I find myself hating time. I want to be busy. Now.

I'm having a mental recession. Come back another day, or year. Really.

There's Something About Love and the Many Ways to Fuck it Up

Aging has a funny way of making you think that you're becoming wiser. Something about turning a year older makes you believe that you can make much better decisions than you did the year before. Of course, there are many circumstances where getting older makes you a little smarter, makes your decisions a little more prudent and overall adds to the rationality of your life. However, I think that when it comes to matters of the heart we are fucked no matter how old we are. Age is certainly nothing but a number when it comes to love, or whatever we call that queasy feeling in the pit of our stomachs. Basically, I'm no closer to understanding the intricacies of the male-female mating dance that I've participated in since I was 16.

I've been back in Toronto for 3 days and have spent 2 of those days with Noel. I realized quite quickly that spending 5 months talking to somebody on the phone from across an ocean builds a lot of anticipation plus a whole lot of expectations. I wanted what I felt on the phone in person, but it didn't quite happen that way. The thing is that the phone as a medium comes with a lot of transformative power. While on either end of this technological marvel (thank you Mr. Bell) people are often braver, more honest, and certainly more likely to be open. Noel is shy, often awkward, and nerdy...I knew that going in, but I didn't know whether that would transfer well from the phone to sitting across the dinner table from him. Going through the beginning part of your relationship from different continents is more difficult than you can imagine. I spent most the last 5 months convincing myself that knowing him so intimately in an emotional and psychological way would make being together in Toronto even better. I consoled myself with the idea that knowing somebody so deeply could only make being together easier and more wonderful. The problem is that you can't ever account for the unknown. When I got back to Toronto, Noel and I were more than we were when I left for London in January and certainly the expectations were higher. I hate to say it, but it has been far harder than I imagined, and more awkward than I believed. Even worse, my feelings are swinging like a pendulum.

Let me make myself totally clear. Noel is the kindest, sweetest, nicest guy in the world. I don't think I believed men like him existed. Am I total bitch for thinking that he's too nice? I thought that all I ever wanted was a good guy who was enamored with me. I have one now, and all I want is somebody who'll stand up to me and won't look at me with stars in his eyes. I can't seem to enjoy being looked at the way he looks at me because it feels unrealistic and I live in the real world. I am not even close to as perfect as he thinks I am. I'm afraid to disappoint him by being as imperfect as a human usually is and also by doing anything that could possibly disillusion him. But sometimes, I revel in how much he likes me (I am a total bitch). In turn, he gets so nervous around me, and I don't think he's totally himself. When we get on the phone, even now, he's so much more open and direct. In real life he's afraid to do anything to push me away. He's on eggshells, and I'm feeling jipped because the guy I want (and was promised) only seems to come alive when we've got phones attached to our ears.

I want to react differently than I have in the past when situations with men have been less than what I wanted them to be. Usually, as a friend likes to say, I squash things before they even really get started. If he's a bad kisser, I'm done. If he doesn't excite me, I'm done. If he's not my ideal, I'm done. What's wrong with me? So I've decided that this time, I'm going to be different. I'm going to give this a chance and see where it goes. Maybe he'll be less nervous over time. Maybe he'll be exactly what I want and need. Obviously I liked, and still like, him for very good reasons. He's still smart, and kind, thoughtful and honest. I mean, he bought me a box of chocolates (each chocolate personally picked out) for our first date since I've been back in Toronto. See, thoughtful. Do guys do that anymore? Why can't I be happy with that?

I'm at a crossroads. I'm 24, older this year than last, and hopefully a little better at living life. However, it seems that love has trumped me again. I have no clue how to deal with this situation. I've got a strategy, though, and I guess all I can do now is see how it plays out.

Music, Lyrics, Life, and Other Stuff That Doesn't Make Sense....hello.

I should probably write about the things that have been happening to me in the last couple of months. Much of it feels like a blur really. I went to Los Angeles...almost died over Kansas City....started my thesis...and I'm currently closing the London chapter of my life. Seems like too much to write about, surely too much to string together in coherent sentences without getting carpal tunnel.

I want to be a songwriter. Honestly, I find myself feeling so many different kinds of emotions that my emotional state almost begs to be put to some sort of chord or note or string. I can't help but think that my current state of life would best be captured in song (maybe even a dance). When I listen to particular songs I feel like somebody "out there" got the music and lyrics to my life right. Sigh. Have you ever heard Matchbox 20's Unwell? If you haven't then you should get on that...quickly. If you ever feel like you're going crazy and can't be understood, I'm pretty sure Rob Thomas understood which is why he wrote that song. You know what I listen to now? The music of my life. That consists of random conversations with people at international airports, figuring out mathematical riddles for my seat mates on planes, falling in love with watermelon juice at trendy LA happy hour bars, watching Stephen Colbert and laughing like a crazed woman (the man is comedic gold), writing the kind of thesis that might change my life and falling for an amazing guy who makes me believe the impossible (mostly that not all men are complete assholes). I'm at a place in my life where adulthood is greeting me with a briefcase, a list of "must do's", and a road map to possible futures. I like the one that shows me happy.

I'm supposed to be making sense and I hope I am. However, I'm feeling dulled by the fight I had with Noel last night, and the making up we did this morning, the small tokes of Mary Jane I partook in last night, and the revival of my addled brain this morning.

I'm saying goodbye to London, and hello to Toronto. I'm say goodbye to distance, and hello to closeness. I was supposed to grow. Did I? I can't wait for hindsight to come-a-knockin'.

I'm stopping by to say I haven't forgotten about you, but that I've been a little preoccupied with watching my life put together some music and lyrics for me. I want to see this song play out. Afterwards, I'll have some words that seem less...distracted. Soon. Goodbye. Oh....and hello.

April's Fool

It's been almost a month. Many things have happened, but mostly I've been trapped beneath the weight of academia trying to survive the month of April. I'll give a quick recap.

April 1st I turned 24...for the first and last time. I don't get to turn 24 again. That's it, folks. It was a one shot deal. Noel sent me a box full of goodies from Toronto. I think I fell for him in that moment, because for the first time a guy made me cry in a good way. I didn't even know you could get good tears from a guy considering my eyes have a separate tear duct labeled "For the Assholes!"

After my birthday I spent the rest of my days writing papers about global governance, agribusiness and globalization, gender roles in disaster vulnerabilities and urban disaster risk. It's been a scintillating month I tell ya. Besides that, I've spent every non-academic moment on the phone with Noel talking for so many hours I'm pretty sure my ears experience withdrawal when they don't hear his voice. What the fuck am I doing?

I'm a one-person girl. I can only handle one thing at a time and considering what a handful I am I can say with all certainty its enough just to deal with myself. So Noel is another woe on top of the many that just live inside of me like squatters in a broke down, boarded up house. The biggest problem that I have with him is that I can see this working out just as much I see it failing. I'm equally prepared to have him in my life as I am to live without him. There is no bias. I am cynical enough to believe that come May 29th when I return to Toronto things will degrade to the level of a nuclear breakdown. Think Hiroshima. I am, also, hopeful enough to believe that for a girl who knows nothing about healthy, loving relationships this could turn out to be everything she's never known. Think every RomCom ever created. For the most part I alternate between believing that "this is it" or feeling like maybe this is just one more due I have to pay before the right one comes along. Funny how a situation like this can appear so disjointed when your own mind is so disjointed. Cynical to hopeful...two sides, same coin, generally pathetic situation.

I wish I could say this has something to do with Noel, but after psychoanalyzing myself I've realized this is more about me than anything. He is quick to reassure me. But isn't that what they're supposed to do? He is fast to make me feel good. But would I be with him if he didn't? He says all the right things. But, honestly, why wouldn't he? He can't make a move without me fucking it up for him. I should give him a chance, but really, does that sound like me at all?

I spent the last couple of days losing my brain cells and steadily lowering my IQ by watching The Pussycat Dolls Present: Girliscious. Of course I have no excuse for this behavior except to say that when a girl is constantly reading UN documents full of depressing details a little fluff and vapidness goes a long way. Unfortunately, we took a bad turn towards "low self-esteem road" and I was broken down by a show with a title that is enough to turn any academic into a raving lunatic. One girl on the show had the nerve to declare that "beauty is a talent, I mean, not everybody is born beautiful." That's right. Tell that to the girls with a complex about their looks, with enough issues about their weight they could bury themselves with it. Irrational as it is, this comment made by the most vapid, ignorant, absolutely idiotic, glitter loving, lip gloss fawning, hair flipping waste of food (really, she probably doesn't eat) made me feel utterly gross. So I can't wear a pair of 3 inch heels and dance in cut offs so short I could easily have an offensive Britney moment. What does that matter? Fuck. Why do I give a shit? Maybe I should just buy a bikini and put all my worth in a piece of string and 3 triangles that cover just enough....but not too much.

I guess my talent is constant worry, easy self-disgust, confidence on a pendulum, and a brain that can process complex documents but couldn't figure how to sing and dance at the same time. No beauty talent here. I'm just a woman with a stressful life, a guy she can't seem to reconcile mentally with, and a need to wonder why, if beauty is skin deep, people aren't equipped to see to that depth. Apparently, beauty is like a UV ray....our eyes just aren't made to see it.

Excuse my fat ass.

I spent part of last night watching Penn & Teller: Bullshit! on Showtime via my new favorite TV website www.surfthechannel.com. I had my choice of episodes and stumbled upon one named Exercise v.s. Genetics. I had to watch it as a woman, like many others, who has struggled with her weight most of her adult life. Because of this brilliant show with a serious no bullshit attitude, and a penchant for dirty words (fuck is a favorite of theirs and mine) I was once again reminded that you are your genes. As a university graduate from a biology and physiology program with more knowledge about genetics than the average person I couldn't believe I had allowed myself to forget that. I'm a fuckin endomorph. I'm not going to be predisposed to being tall and lean like an ectomorph (although bless the God who made me tall and therefore hid some of my endomorphness) or have a muscular build that allows me to lose weight quickly making me a veritable fitness machine like a mesomorph. As an endomorph I am defined as: soft, round or curvy, and generally pear shaped, predisposed to gaining fat and muscle easily but with major trouble with losing weight and fat. Basically I'm genetically fucked and I should be happy with it, or at least that's what Penn & Teller tell me.

I'll put this into context. I'm generally athletic, I've been a tomboy my whole life, played sports throughout my teens, but I've never be skinny (well at least at no point past 14, really). I've never been truly fat either, although many people have called me that. In my mind if the average woman is a size 12, and I'm a size 12/14 I'm pretty normal, and not fat. But, after all, I'm not a size 4 and therefore, of course, I am indeed fat. I'm a lard ass. I shop at regular stores, and wear all the same things most people do, and just because bikinis scare the shit out of me doesn't mean I'm an obese monster. Granted I would love to lose a solid 25-30 pounds, but you know what, I'm not inclined to do it right now as my life is filled with more important things to take care of.... like my life!

Like most women who are not a size 4 I've received all the lovely epithets such as "You have such a beautiful face...if only you lost some weight" or "You probably shouldn't eat that" or "You should exercise more, its really good for your health" or "Do you know how much prettier you would be if you just lost some weight". Thanks, but no fuckin thanks. Who are these people who feel they have a right to comment on the state of my ass? Do you see me going up to skinny people and telling them to shove a pizza down their throats? NO! Because I'm apparently under the misconception that I don't have any right to involve myself in a person's eating habits, fitness habits or their physical appearance. What's next? Do I tell the girl with a slightly larger nose to get a nose job? Tell the brunette to go blonde? Who gives a fuck, really? So I can't wear a bikini....I can still have a stimulating, intelligent conversation about poverty, AIDS, world hunger, global warming, evolution, and genetics! Why does that not count for anything? Oh that's right, I can't have this conversation while wearing a belly top and short shorts (as if I would even if I could!) therefore its obsolete.

I am proposing that I lose 5 pounds for every important and legitimate personal character trait that I have. So....

- 5 pounds = I am intelligent woman who is very well educated.
- 5 pounds = I am a kind, generous human being who focuses more on being a good person than the state of her thighs.
- 5 pounds = I care deeply about alleviating world poverty, decreasing anthropogenic damage to the earth, taking strong measures to control AIDS and the promotion of free trade
- 5 pounds = I can have an intelligent conversation on a multitude of topics
- 5 pounds = I think I'm funny as hell
- 5 pounds = I find it much more satisfying to give a very personal, thoughtful gift to a friend than to receive one myself

Would you look at that....that's my 25-30 pounds gone in a flash. If only it were that easy to win over the world without getting on a treadmill. The irony of it all is that I am not an over eater (in fact I get full after a second slice of pizza) and I eat very healthy (hell, I'm a vegetarian now), but, damn it, I'm an endomorph. Excuse my genetics.

I do love food because it is a wonderful part of life. Experiencing the flavors, the cultures and the differences in each dish is a gift that is not afforded to all. Many people starve in the world every day and yet somehow in the developed world we are so disdainful of such a life sustaining product. I'm going to make it a point to tell the 25,000 people a day that die of starvation that they should hate food because it'll make them fat. It is this disgustingly hypocritical, socially unaware rhetoric of the Western world that reminds me how absolutely ridiculous it is to worry about fat, rather than to worry about important things....like starvation in the Third World!

So, after being called fat last Thursday by a man who is far bigger than me and told to exercise more by another man who I thought had the sense not to comment on my lifestyle, I want to say that I don't give a shit if I can wear a bikini. The value of life is not in the cellulite on ones thighs, the rolls on ones stomach, the stretch marks on ones arms, or the slight waddle is ones step. Good God people, do we not have bigger problems in the world? Are there not people dying from hunger, aids, poverty, war and injustice? Why are we so preoccupied with something that does not reflect a person's most important traits....like kindness, intelligence, awareness, humility. I sure as hell haven't seen a correlation between hotness and goodness.

At the end of the day I'd rather have a Ghandi than a Jessica Simpson. It is through the work of people who are not "traditionally" attractive that the world has come to see its greatest pioneers, activists, revolutionaries and leaders. Nelson Mandela is no Denzel Washington, Mother Theresa was no Halle Berry, Albert Einstein was no Brad Pitt and to make my point clear, nobody gave a crap if Anne Frank was skinny or fat. I ask you now, what does my weight have anything to do with who I am? If the answer is nothing then we all know where the problem lies....and that's not with me.

The Love Jones

I was reminded of the movie Love Jones....a true, passionate love story with a rhythmic tale about words and poetry, love and fate. I downloaded the soundtrack and after listening to the mellow sounds of love in its many musical forms....jazz, soul, blues....I remembered that love, above all else, is a journey. Love Jones is simply a tale of that journey where love is made to jazz, and inevitably, the souls were made to love.


It's in the words, the verbs, the verses, the soul
Expressed in sweet touches skimming down low
Fingertips laying on the small of the back
While skin to skin it plays out like fact

Ringing out in the silence of the night
The soft caress of the muted limelight
Voices humming in the aftermath
Warm, and lazy, along this destined path

Intoxicated on kisses like juices flowing
Sleeping over love made, but not slowing
Inside the sweetest thing that's ever known
Outside the greatest feeling that's ever shown

Too deep in the bones to lose
A jones so embedded it cannot move
Too heavy on the body to lift
A fate so true it cannot shift

It's in the words, the verbs, the verses, the soul
Played out on the hip, the skin, the lips, the whole

Life and Death

2:35 pm on a Saturday and I was sleeping only to be woken up by the ringing of my cell phone. It was my father calling with the kind of news people seem to be getting more and more these days. "There was a shooting..." that's all I heard before I sprung upright in my bed. See, I have two brothers, one who just turned 17 and another who is 20. In a world where young black men often find themselves on the wrong end of a bullet I hear the word "shooting" and my thoughts automatically go to my brothers. But why does my brain do that?

I come from a middle class family background, my parents have a mortgage, two cars, 5 kids, where 3 out of 5 are in post-secondary education, 1 is in high school, and me, in graduate school in the UK. My immigrant parents have worked so hard to give us the opportunities that our war torn country couldn't and still can't. My family has thrived because of their hard work. We've been blessed with the love of great parents, their time and patience, and because of all of that we've turned out to be good kids. We work hard, and we aim to be educated, law abiding participants in society. My parents have never had to deal with drugs, alcohol, gangs, pregnancy scares and I count that as a serious blessing in a world of teenage pregnancies, gun violence, and substance abuse. So why do I still worry about my brothers? They're good boys (almost men) who go to school, work and are home at a normal hour. They play football with their friends, spend their days playing video games, and bugging their sisters. Why do I hear the word "shooting" and automatically feel like I'm going to have my heart ripped out?

Last week, 6 young Somali boys were shot by one gunman. 5 survived, and 1 died. The place it happened is about 20 minutes from my house, an area I've been to, near one of the malls I frequent, and not so far removed from my neighborhood. The police released a video of the shooting and I felt both disgust and shock while watching it. To watch one person literally shoot out an entire round on 6 men trapped in an enclosed area without any mercy, with such casualty dumbfounded me. But why should it? I'm from a country that's been at war with itself for years and has racked up the death toll to match. I live in a civilized nation where gun violence is rising and the death of a young man is yet another news story among so many others. Why does death surprise me? My aunt was shot in the leg in Somalia a few years ago during a carjacking. My father is a military man who I'm sure has shot a weapon before. I guess I know bullets, but I don't know bullets.

The young man who died, Abdikarim, told his mom he would be back soon before leaving his home for the very last time. I have brothers who say that to my mom when she asks when they'll be back. I have brothers who say that to me if I catch them leaving the house without telling anybody where they're going. Simply, I have brothers. I don't want them to be a statistic. I don't want either of my brothers to be yet another black man killed by a gun. Is it too much to wonder at why there is so much black on black violence? Why do young black men feel that they have a right to claim the lives of anybody, let alone another young brother in the struggle? Can life really seem that insignificant? I ask myself if the lives of my brothers only matter to me and my family. Do others see their lives as unimportant? For me, I see two young men who are benefiting from a great life that their parents sacrificed for, who have so much to live for and to see and yet I am constantly worried that somebody else will not see that and will have no qualms about ending their lives. Why?

Abdikarim had a sister. I actually met her last year at my university where she was a first year student. We happened to know the same group of girls and I remember thinking to myself that she was so young and I felt so old in comparison. I was graduating, she was finishing her first year and the difference in age felt staggering. I remember thinking she had the most beautiful hair. She was, without a doubt, a sweetheart. Young, excited and full of promise about what life in university was going to be like. Now, after the death of her brother, she's an adult. She's been forced to see real life in a way that nobody should have to see, through death. My younger sister's best friend used to go out with Adbikarim. I remember her coming over to my house and telling me she had a boyfriend. I thought to myself, "you're too young to be dating." I also thought, "holy crap, this little girl is doing a better job at dating than I am." I laughed about it. She was almost 16 at the time, and now, at 17, she's witnessed the death of her very first boyfriend. What do I do with that? I can't imagine what her thoughts are, what her perceptions of life and death have now become because somebody thought that this young man's life was not important enough. And it was. It was important to his sister, to my sister, to my sister's best friend, to a community who is in shock and to me, just another girl with brothers she loves and worries about.

This morning when my father called to tell me there was a shooting I felt my heart skip a beat. I couldn't form any words. He was calling to tell me there had been a shooting at a coffee shop in my neighborhood. 4 young men were shot while sitting inside, drinking coffee and talking, by one or more people from outside the shop. The location? The coffee shop in the plaza where I get my pizza slices, where I get my hair cut, where I rent my movies, where I buy my groceries, where I go to the doctors, where my dentist gets rid of my cavities, and where my brothers hang out. How easily could have one of those 4 young men been one of my brothers? Luckily, all 4 sustained non-life threatening injuries and will live to see another day. That's all they have, another day. This happened at 1 am, and my brothers are very much at home at that time, but only because of the iron fist with which my mother rules. Then again, do gunmen run on a time schedule? I don't think so.

The attempted massacre of 6 young men in Toronto has served to remind me of how precious life is, and how easily it can be destroyed. Something as small as a bullet can shatter the lives of families, communities, and make me, a regular girl from a regular family, wonder and worry about her two brothers mortality. I want to worry if they're going to harass me on MSN tomorrow, or if they'll go cross-eyed from watching too much TV, or if they'll do well on their tests, or if they just stole the last slice of cake from the fridge. I don't want to think of their deaths.

I'm in London, experiencing the beauty of life and love and travel, and yet I am now reminded of the other side of life....death. Having said that, I am in deep prayer for Abdikarim's soul, and his family. My heart is with his sister. My thoughts are with his mother. My hope is with our community.

May Allah (S.W.T.) bless his soul, grant him entrance to paradise, and may he rest peacefully in a better place. Amen.

Boyfriend Shmoyfriend

I think I have a boyfriend. I have no idea how that happened. This is not an area in which I excel. I knew I should've gotten a puppy first. Damn it.

Putting brain to paper

In the past I've been extremely motivated by stories that I felt I needed to write. I was madly passionate about them. I especially had a need to make one of them the story, the one that would take me from a sometimes, dreamer writer to an actual one. Enter my neurotic issues. The problem I've found with my writing is that I am fickle like a 15 year old boy just discovering girls. Everything is exciting, the tension overwhelming and most of all the choices so limitless that one project quickly ends to make way for a new one. There lies my problem. I have a 5 minute attention span for any piece of writing I want to put together. Don't get me wrong though because those 5 minutes are the most exhilarating 5 minutes in the history of writing. But eventually the fizzle dies before I can get to page 35.

There was one time I wrote 120 pages of a story that now makes me want to hang myself in shame. I haven't looked at that thing since I was 21. That was it. At 21 I left all attempts to put together a decent story behind because I feared the hell out of losing interest in it. I didn't want to get tired of a really interesting story just because I couldn't seem to remain steadfast. The irony? I am the most steadfast person in the world! I like what I like and it usually stays that way until something catastrophic happens (which is rarely!). However, in the context of writing, I could have come up with the original Romeo & Juliet storyline and I would still have gotten bored if I had to write it. But I love the story! I can't imagine a world where Shakespeare did not write this beautiful tale. Yet if it had been left up to me Romeo & Juliet would have never been written. I would've been off gallivanting in my non-writer state after having got bored with the story. Why must I be this way? This is why blogging is so easy for me. A few paragraphs is short enough for me to remain interested, and boredom never has a chance to settle in. Damn me and my writer's A.D.D!

Anyway, I've come up with a really good story idea. One that I want to write out beautifully enough to perhaps, maybe, send out into the publishing world and see what happens. The thing is that I'm not quite sure where I'll be 5 minutes into writing it in terms of interest. Will I want to walk away? Or will I, for the first time, stand firm and be steadfast in finishing a story I think could be a great piece of work? Oh, who knows. Another problem is that I'm ridiculously pessimistic, and critical of anything that has to do with me writing. Therefore, while the story is a good one, I feel like it won't work and that I'll butcher it. Yep. And I can't seem to ever want to write when I have free time. That time is for sleeping, eating, and reading...all three intercepted with bouts of bitching. When I'm due to write 6 essays in 6 weeks I only want to write the great novel that is living inside of me. I am what you call truly fucked. But I'm pretty sure that's got to be a prerequisite to being a writer so I guess I might be on the right road. Now, if only I could stay on this road for longer that 5 minutes I would be set.....otherwise, see you in the nursing home's creative writing class in about 50 years where 5 minutes is the difference between living and croaking on a dirty linoleum floor.

Thinking? Huh, good God, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing!

I'm fresh from reading A.'s post about thinking. I too am afflicted with this overly cliche skill that is hated by most people who are unfortunate enough to have it. I do my "best" thinking....never. Seriously, there has never been a time when I've "thought" and come up with anything that is a true and clear reflection of reality. In fact, most of the time, it is the manic ramblings of an overthinker who is intimidated by "doing" things and therefore is subject to thinking about every angle that possibly exists to make the act of living easier, or at least, planned to perfection. Or in my case, planned to neurosis. I'll be happy to provide the kind of examples that'll make you think, hmmm, wow, thinking is so not her strong suit....she should stick to sleeping (which I do very well!).

1) When he says he likes me does he mean he likes, likes me? His tone of voice sounded like he was being sincere, but was that because he felt pressured? Hmmm, what did I say before he said anything? I think I might've made him say it. He probably doesn't mean it. Hmmm, but what if he does mean it? You know, he probably does like me, but maybe not likes, likes me, but there are definitely some like feelings inside of him. Right, that's what he said. Okay, maybe I shouldn't call him tomorrow. He probably needs some time and space to think about it. Maybe we should see other people. Oh crap, is he seeing somebody else? I wonder if he likes, likes her? Damn it.

2) I wonder if I ignore the fact that I think M. is crazy that she won't realize that I think she's as fuckin' wacko as Britney Spears on Red Bull and extra cheesy nachos (worse than crack people). I mean, she has to know that I think she's nuts because I can't control my facial contortions that reflect shock, slight repulsion, and awkwardness when she screams out in the computer lab that "she got laid". I think its weird for women to scream that out loud in public. What would June Cleaver think? Probably that M. was crazy as fuck (direct quote?). I'll just smile more. You can't go wrong with smiling when somebody tells you they've just had sex multiple times with random guy #5. Right, the grin will convey that I'm both jealous and happy. Happy about what? Oh who knows, but I'm sure that if I don't smile she'll know she's Britney Spears. Is M. going to shave her head? Oh, that would not be good. Fuck.

3) Black people have a built in anti-blushing mechanism....melanin, is there anything you can't do?

4) If Americans threaten to move to Canada if shit hits the fan, where do Canadians threaten to move to? I hope it isn't Australia. No offense, but Australia apparently got the "countries should not be seen or heard" speech and took it very seriously. When was the last time something happened in Australia? Oh shit, Kylie Minogue happened...to the world, courtesy of Australia. I take it back. I kind of want to see what kind of people would admit to actually liking Kylie Minogue. That's truly fucked.

5) Who is Jessica Simpson going to date next? Inquiring minds don't want to know.


Yeah, and that's it. No thinking left. It's probably for the best. I've exhausted all my crazy here and I'm going to sleep. Now there's something that I can do really well. With sleeping maybe I can even win an award, perhaps a Pulitzer, maybe even a Nobel Prize, or more importantly, win American Idol. Good sleepers make good singers duh!

Don't Cry Over Spilt Man 'cause Love, well, Love is a Battlefield

“Don’t cry over spilt man.” On the verge of my 24th birthday I realized that crying over split milk is one thing, but crying over spilt man is rather, well, monotonous. Forgive my melodrama, or even my attempt at meaningful poetic ramble, but I’m sure we could easily cover the entire surface of the earth with the tears that women have cried over men. Now, could that be said for the amount of milk that’s been spilled over time? In my current cynical state, I would reply with a “doubtful”.

I remember the 6th grade when the extent of my male-female relationships was looking outside Mrs. Hall’s 6th grade classroom’s window at Garth playing basketball when he shouldn’t have been. God, what a rebel. That boy, in all his 8th grade glory, was the greatest thing to have happened to me. Did we date? God, no, he was beyond my awkward reach, but I watched him play basketball, and thought to myself, “wow, if this is how good ‘liking’ feels now, I can’t wait for future ‘likes’ to come my way”. Now I know my 6th grade self should’ve probably captured those feelings in a time capsule of emotions because it was all downhill from that moment on. There is a certain patheticness to having peaked at 11 years old. If I had known back then what I know now, I would’ve run up to Garth on the basketball court and asked him to marry me. It would’ve been the one and only time I would get close to having a man propose to me… while I was proposing to him.

I’m coming too close to feeling what I’ve always promised myself I would never feel, hopelessness. Is there nothing but shit out there in the Y chromosomed world? I hope not, but in that “hope” I’m also feeling hopelessness which means I’ve obliterated any anticipation of a “one day” and “some time” where I would feel some modicum of adult feelings which would be reciprocated by another adult. Now that is a long sentence to get across one simple point…men blow! The crappyness that is the male has led me to kill any residual good feelings I have for that sex and now I must sit at my local Starbuck’s woeing and moaning about “WHY?” and “HOW?” this could’ve happened to me. Being miserable and single was one of the first trends to have entered my life and it has never left. I’ve washed that down with chocolate cake, pizza and every hamburger that McDonald’s has ever put out into the consumer world. I hate men and my ass hates me.

So me and my fat ass are feeling rather like we’ve paid our dues (and believe me that treadmill time looming over my head says enough) and now we’re looking to be cashed into the good times. Fuck you, man, you owe me, and I’m coming to collect because I’m no sucker. Okay, maybe I have been a sucker, but not any longer. I found my Carly Simon tapes, and Janet Jackson CD’s and I bet you think this piece is about you, because you’re so vain and a very nasty boy! God, Janet and Carly know me and my soul.

I also remember a time when listening to the predictably overly sentimental tunes of a man’s voice telling me “he’ll love me forever” and that “I’m his soul mate” would make me curl up in a ball of optimism. Now I hate Brian McKnight, and Boyz 2 Men, and I would burn their CD’s if I wasn't still a fan of Motown Philly (which is not about love, or making love, or doing other stuff with regards to love, but about doing the running man to the beats of the 90s). An angry woman song…that’s what I need. I’ll be listening to a little “Love is a battlefield” courtesy of the lovely and angry Pat Benatar. The 80s were good for at least one thing (80s…one, men…zero).

The Co-Dependency Bitch

I feel as if the general tone of anything that can come from me today is either going to be angry or sarcastic. The line is thin and faint, and I'm criss crossing it to diversify my emotional state.

Last night I had one of those very lovely telephone conversations where you end up wishing that you could turn your phone cord into a noose and use it to hang yourself. It was awkward, and weird and it was a 80%-20% blame split with Noel enjoying the larger portion of the blame.

I went to Munich on Monday and Noel and I were forced to endure our first long term non-communicato stretch....3 days. God, I've become a co-dependent freak of nature who would rather talk to a boy on the phone that watch Veronica Mars episodes. And I know what that means in my world, it means I've gone stark raving, ape shit mad and I need to be stopped by the single police and return to my normal station in life...singledom. Unfortunately, I entered the "twosome" dark side a long time ago. At the time, I was okay with the selling of my soul to the "twosome" God in exchange for the other half of my twosome being a normal, non-assholish man. I got what I asked for....ish. Yes, he is normal, and yes he is no asshole, but there must be something about that cursed Y chromosome that causes the male brain to work at what I'm now calling "idiot" capacity. I did take 20% of the blame, but there's a whole 80% that had nothing to do with my neurosis.

This story goes a little something like this. I had bronchitis (see below), a bitch of a plague that had me bed ridden and closeted in my room like the creepy old skeleton man from Tales From The Crypt. I smelled like Vicks vapor rub, looked like Oprah without make-up and mumbled, fumbled and garbled all my sentences like Lindsay Lohan on her third run to the local 7-Eleven for another bottle of cheap Rum. I was great company though. Half-lucid, semi-conscious people are always cool to hang with....they never realize half the shit that's going on anyway. Throughout my plague Noel called me regularly to check on how well my lungs were holding up under the strain of multiple layers of over-active mucus (I know, good times). Our final goodbye (yes, it felt that dramatic) was sweet, even if it was over MSN. There were exchanges of quasi "I'll Miss You" type things (direct Noel quote: "I'll try to keep it together without you for the next 72 hours") that seemed very adorable, sincere and genuine.....until I got back from Munich and had the phone conversation from hell. As the queen of sarcasm, I find I need to hear a person's voice to gage if there is any facetiousness to their remarks. MSN is my downfall. During the infamous phone call I realized that those sweet words of goodbye might not have been quite as sincere as I believed while I was in the MSN world.

I called Noel on Thursday (after I spent mucho time thinking about him) and the vibe was weird. I asked, because I couldn't help myself, how things went "on the missing front", where he replied "by missing, do you mean missing you?" and I thought "DUH!?" but simply replied "yeah." What happened next was one of those pauses you never want to hear when asking somebody a question that has an answer you are emotionally tied to. He paused, and I broke right in and said "forget I even asked". His reply? To throw in a "kinda". KINDA!?!?!? I mean this beats Jay's response of "okay" when I finally told him I liked him. God, I am a slave to the retarded responses of men who have no idea how to articulate themselves one way or another. He KINDA missed me whereas I was thinking about whether we'd ever see Munich together. Fucking co-dependent emotional bullshit.

I asked, in a round about way, whether he missed me because I couldn't stop myself from wanting to hear what I thought was coming....something along the lines of "Of course, I missed you." That's what was eluded to before I left, that was what was implied in our last conversation and I just assumed that he had missed me as much as I had missed him. It suddenly hit me that everything from Sunday night was said in jest, to be cute rather than real. He never recovered from that "kinda" and neither did I. It was strange and awkward from that moment on and by not rising above that one word and making things even more awkward I take 20% of the blame. As you've read above....I happily give him the remaining 80%.

I realized in that moment I need to be the girl I was 2 months ago...detached, skeptical and single. I don't need this kind of male induced headache in the middle of an almost quarter life crisis. I decided that an emotional step back was necessary, both to reassess how I feel about this time in my life, this person in my life, and also to give Noel an opportunity to see what life is like without me. Talking to him everyday, being so utterly available because I suck at playing "the game" has made a guy who appreciated my presence start taking it for granted. I don't need this because co-dependency is the death nail to individualism, and I am the biggest proponent of the individual. Noel isn't going to be the reason I forget that I come first because my emotions want to include him in my "MY" time.

I find this need to possess and be possessed destructive. My mind needs a rest, and by rest I mean it needs to be re-focused on the things that matter most....me and my life.

There's no rest for the ill

No matter what anybody says bronchitis is not your friend!

Let that be a lesson to all you kids who go outside without hats, and gloves and touch sickly people in an effort to be nice. Yeah, you know what's nice, being in bed with your good old friend bronchitis...who, remember, isn't your friend at all!

Going to Munich in less than 48 hours, I'm hoping bronchitis dies before then.

[Insert wild coughing]

My Heart Goes Pitter-Patter for V-Day Cinnamon Candy Hearts

Valentine's Day. The consumer driven blah holiday fed by blubbering Hallmark marketing campaigns, overly rouge window displays in every flower shop of every city and sappy, black and white "forever" diamond commercials. Truth is, most men try to redeem themselves for 364 days of shitty behavior with 1 day of chocolate and flowers. And women, suckers that they are, get taken in like the overly emotional creatures that they are. Granted, some men, those who aren't quite so crappy in the boyfriend/husband/significant other department, use this day to further their "good partner" cause. Now, who can find fault with that? Well, it seems to me that February 14th shouldn't be the only day a man should go out of his way for his partner. V-Day was conceived by some upstart marketing guru and now is "the day" for generous displays of affection. I wonder, quite relevantly, what is so hard about making February 13th just as sappy as February 14th? They are both days of the month, both seemingly enjoy a day/night cycle, both have weather patterns (snow in Toronto, rain in London), and they both require you to wake up, work and then go to sleep. Similar in all the ways that count right? So, why can't I get flowers on the 13th and the 14th?

The case against V-Day is simple....it is not the only day that matters. You want to be a great boyfriend? Be one on April 17th, May 5th, June 21st, July 8th, August 28th, September 12th, October 2nd, November 30th, December 4th, and January 16th. That is a random sample of days throughout the year, just as random as February 14th. This gives you a once-a-month opportunity to expect flowers, chocolate, maybe even a diamond, instead of selling yourself short for one day, one February 14th, every year. Once a year, or once a month? I know what my choice would be. If I could push it I might even argue for twice a month, but considering the fact that the male population can barely get it together for major holidays, let alone V-Day, I make my case simple. Once a month. Set your sights higher than him walking into a Pharmacy to buy some ridiculous card in the shape of the heart simply because he couldn't miss the huge display. Yes, chocolates are good, maybe he should buy you some truffles on a random day, when he doesn't have to, when nobody is watching, when nobody is reminding him, when, well, he just wants to.

I have never celebrated V-Day. I was either single, dating an asshole, or simply irritated by the idea that only one day of the year was allocated to be generous with ones love. This year, yes, I am far happier with who is in my life on V-Day. Noel is a sweetheart, a nice guy who means a little more to me than a corny holiday, but who gets my candy hearts all the same. And maybe it's him who has made me start thinking about what the other side of V-Day looks like, the side where the corniness is lost and true and honest expressions of love are found.

My lovely roommate, Lena, received a bouquet of flowers from her boyfriend back in Canada. He's a nice guy who obviously knows the caliber of girlfriend he has (she's a pretty awesome girl) and did something incredibly sweet, and from what I gathered, totally unlike him. He is neither mushy, nor sappy, and this gesture, one completely mushy and sappy, stands out to me as the quintessential non-V-Day, V-Day expression of love. He's the exception to the rule because his desire to show his love was facilitated by V-Day not dictated by it. Therefore, he gave to give, and V-Day was just as good an opportunity as February 13th, except I'm sure he understood what opening that box would be like for her, what it would mean to her. And I understand that. Her smile, her giddiness, the happiness just radiating from her was enough to redeem this holiday for me. Perhaps, behind all the corny pinkness of it all, there are people who receive genuine happiness from being remembered by those they love. And yes, in that moment I felt Lena deserved that happiness, not only because she's a great person, but because, just maybe, February 14th was her day. It was her time to get the unexpected, to hope a little for that something wonderful, to find herself falling back in love with the man in her life. Even though this holiday is created by the spinning minds of those that make a giant monetary profit from it, they do not get to enjoy the best part. I've realized the best part of February 14th is not the gifts you receive as a result of shrewd marketing, but that smile of happiness, those tears of joy, that feeling of love. I say if a day of cliche madness makes people feel good, then who am I to bitch about it?

Thanks to that same roommate I have a box of cinnamon candy hearts, that I've already managed to get halfway through, and seeing as they are my favorite candy and that they only come around for the 14th of February I found my own reason to like V-Day. Cinnamon candy hearts. Thank you Lent for making Lena unable to eat these sugary sweets, thank you to her mom for not knowing Lena gave up sugar for Lent when she got her that candy, thanks to me, for being at the right place at the right time, and finally thank you, V-Day, for being the catalyst for the production of the greatest candy concoction in the world....cinnamon, candy hearts. Mmmm. I love me some V-Day.

Compelling Feminism

I heard a word today and it has been lingering in my mind ever since. Compelling. Definition: driving or forcing, holding attention, attracting strong interest and attention. Doesn't it sound like one of those words that you want somebody to use to describe you? She was compelling. Her argument was compelling. Her aura was compelling. I mean, I kind of want to be compelling. And sometimes, when I try hard enough, when I grit my teeth and focus, I can sort of be compelling....to no avail.

But I realized, after a long series of ridiculous facebook message arguments with a douchebag who added me last year and who messaged me first, that even when you are compelling, even when your arguments are compelling, there are people too idiotic to appreciate it. What is the point of being a driving force when you're driving into a dumb, deaf, brick wall? That wall being one bad representative of the male gender.

I always find it relatively amusing when men need to assert their masculinity by beating down on women, physically or psychologically. It's both sad and pathetic. Now, because I'm an intelligent woman, who certainly doesn't need the admiration or validation of a man, I see right through their "little woman", pat-me-on-the-head attitude. I wonder, isn't it the men who are not threatened by the intelligence of a woman that are the most masculine? This old school macho ideology that in order to be a man you must be above a woman is not only utterly lame (in laymans terms), but totally indicative of male insecurity. Why do you need to penis swagger in order to feel like you are something? That something, ironically, being a person whose self esteem is tied to the intellectual progress of women. Sad, isn't it? They've had a 3,000 year head start and they still have issues. Get over it.

I will sum up the idiotic beauty of this "man's" facebook messages below:

1) He never, and I do mean never, admits he's wrong, or that I could possibly be right. To do so would somehow mean his balls have shrunk and my uterus has grown. We wouldn't want that, now would we?

2) He attacks. Ah, the old school male tactic of irrational, unnecessary war because diplomacy is, well, too rational (see: Bush, also hope: Hillary). Women, well, we talk and sometimes we also listen. Imagine that.

3) The flip of the tables. Rather than focus on the dumb comments he makes, he would rather dissect the patient and logical comments I make. Can one sided arguments actually be considered arguments?

4) Always resorts to the "You're so emotional" comment. Nothing else has to be said about that.

It was rather like misogynistic, verbal art. In the course of this dialogue (oh, and I'm being generous by calling it that) I learned that the world hasn't changed much even as the first viable female candidate runs for President of the United States. And this guy is American to boot. Isn't he learning anything about the progress, the determination, the sheer struggle of the female gender while he is witness to one of the greatest female achievements of our lifetime? We didn't burn bras for nothing, you know. While I make a compelling case to him about what women represent, what we stand for, what we symbolize, he can only stroke his own ego and that Y chromosome that created it. However cliche and transparent his position, I took offense to it. It shouldn't matter in the grand scheme of it all, but somehow it irked me. He irked me. And then I realized that it was men like him that made the seemingly out of reach idea of women like me a reality.

Maybe all women need to be reminded, on occasion, that the struggle is not over. That you might still be seen as "emotional" or inferior. However, to be seen that way is only indicative of the growing fear of some men over the continuous, and powerful progress we are making. His messages reek of desperate fear. He will not evaluate or consider any arguments I make about anything, because he already feels I've lost due to my gender. Little does he know in about 20 years when my daughter and his son are sitting side by side in a classroom, my little girl is going to show his son what it means to be the product of an intelligent, progressive, educated and informed woman. Because of that.....the movement will live on.

Recovering Survivalist

I've always wondered if the things that happen in life are to test ones ability to survive. Can you get knocked down, brush yourself off and get up...just to do it all over again? There are some who have the distinct luck to never know what it feels like to hit the ground. Others, well, they make getting up and surviving an art form. But is there a threshold? How much can the human spirit take before it doesn't have another knee to bruise, another eye to blacken, another hurt to heal?

Yesterday I had a moment of truth. I realized that my thick skin, this surface that I believed to no longer be permeable by the words of others, wasn't as strong as I believed it to be. Here is the dilemna. I am a figment of what people expect of me. I am, by virtue of some image cultivated in the minds of others, easy going and emotionally strong. I am unhurtable because I am together. I have a forgiving nature, and I am easy going, and can stand, take, handle everything that is pitched my way. I have a thick skin, which means you can say anything to me without worrying if it'll hurt because, well, I'm me, and things just roll off my back. Only, they don't.

I am the queen of the recover. Falling is a practiced skill, and I have no choice but to get up. What would the people around me think if I didn't? To lay there and maybe feel the hurt for a second, to allow myself a moment of weakness long enough to rest, maybe even recuperate doesn't fit with my image. I can take it, right? I always could, but I have a feeling I always won't. I don't feel like giving out any more free passes. I have earned my ability to bounce back, but that doesn't mean that I can't expect not to fall anymore.

My journey from the girl I was, the one who got up in pain and couldn't imagine staying upright longer than a few months, has been futile. She's still in there, wondering how come I have never come through for her. She wonders why I can't seem to fulfill my promise to make sure she never gets hurt again. I failed her and I wonder if I even deserve the chance to make it up to her. I put more faith in the actions of others than I ever had confidence in my reactions to them. I did it all wrong. While I practiced how best to rebound, which ways to recover the fastest, how to make it okay to be knocked down on behalf of others, I lost the part of myself that thought she deserved more.

The fear of being left behind, of being rejected because you are unable to fulfill others needs by justying their hurtful behavior is nothing short of ridiculous. So what if I don't forgive somebody for being cruel? Is my allegiance to them, or to myself? So what if I call somebody on the mean things they've said to me? Am I a bitch because I refuse to be a punching bag? Does it really matter if I'm not as easy going, if I don't make it simple and fun for others to be around me all the time? I am a person with layers, a history, experiences, scabs, and memories. Why am I not allowed to be an accumulation of all that? Why am I simply a reflection of what others need me to be? Maybe, today, I'm much more than that because I'm finally willing to give myself the chances that I've always afforded others. Today is about getting up, brushing myself off....for the last time.

Advice from Men: do they make sense after all?

I was recently given some advice from a really good friend.

Moe has known me since I was a quiet, long legged, wobbly kneed, braid sporting 8 year old. Having been my neighbour pretty much my entire life it is safe to say that he knows me relatively well. His sister, Mena, was one of my first best friends. Let me qualify that statement by saying that I've enjoyed a steady, revolving door style flow of best friends in my lifetime. From Mena to Zahra to Bebe to Sumi to Lamb (who will get a blog of her own as soon as I talk myself out of ordering a hit out on her). I do really well with "friends" but the death nail is giving somebody the title of "best friend". I'm learning to get rid of this bad teenage, friendship bracelet BFF crap.

Returning to the point of this blog, I spent a very early morning talking to Moe about the state of my love life. There's a bit of history between us since I wore out a crush on him when I was in high school. His yearbook picture could have legitimately called the cops on me for stalking. I was 16 and he was 20, and all I knew was that he was older, vehically mobile, and didn't piss me off. It made for a good combo in my mind. Well, that lasted through the 11th grade and then I was happy to relegate his status back to my friends brother. But, surprisingly, as fate and randomness would have it, he actually become one of my closest friends. I think all that maneuvering to be around him and strategically finding ways to spend time with him during the crush phase actually showed the both of us that we had a lot in common. Things worked out for the best. He would've been a great boyfriend for exactly 36 hours, but instead I got a great friend for 7 years....and counting.

Back to the advice he gave me. Now, you should understand that Moe isn't exactly the most emotional person in the world. In fact, most girls find him too laid back, cynical, uninterested, and possibly cold. The truth is, he's a no bullshit guy. No mushy lovey dovey crap. He doesn't hold your hand. He's the kind of person that gives you the "what the fuck is wrong with you?" speech and then tells you all the reasons why you shouldn't give a shit. He believes there is no need to get worked up about things, especially relationships. He's a strictly no frou frou kind of person. He tells me, after hearing a shit load of blah, blah, blah about Noel, that I only have one course of action. This may be paraphrased, but it's sure to hit the mark:

"What you need to do is build him up. Gas him up really well. You know, tell him he's good looking, and smart, and nice, and all that shit. Then, step on him like an ant. Squash his ass. He'll know who's boss after that."

Interesting. It seems the complete opposite of my current strategy of "be myself" and "don't play games", but perhaps that stuff is tired, mundane, and simply old fashioned. Truth be told, it hasn't exactly worked to my benefit with all the other losers I've had "things" with. Perhaps, a change of strategy is called for. Perhaps, being a bitch is the way to go. Hmmm, and here I thought being a nice girl was the way to get a nice guy. Fuck that. I'm squishing ants, and they won't see it coming! Thanks, Moe, for putting things into a new perspective...a mercenary perspective, but a new one nonetheless.

On Entering the Twilight Zone

On entering the twilight zone. Better known as dating. I'm pretty sure The Twilight Zone was actually a TV series, but having never watched it I always feel guilty about using the cliche to describe the topsy-turvy confused atmosphere of my life. So, it is with guilt that I can declare that my dating life has entered the twilight zone. Maybe I'm being melodramatic, but I'd like to convey that the general status of well, my status, is befuddling, baffling, and perplexing. There aren't nearly enough bad adjectives to describe this...twilightus zonus. It's sort of like staring at a transvestite convinced that he/she isn't a transvestite, but wondering why their adams apple is bobbing up and down to the beat of The Simpson's theme song. Baffling.

Right. The greatest benefit of being single is simple: you only have yourself to worry about. When you start including anybody, let alone somebody of the male persuasion (non-transvestite), in your though process you're guaranteed sheer insanity. Yep. Think you're normal now? Ha! You'll be lucky to be functioning after he's invaded class time, work time, sleep time, day dream time, eating time, fucking around time, and most importantly, blank time! Blank time is for emptiness, for a big, fat helping of nothingness. It's when he invades that time that I am particularly annoyed. I don't want to be forced to think during designated non-thinking time. A girl's allowed to go blank sometimes, you know. Fuck.

Whereas the last 5 months were filled with the quiet sounds of me, myself and I, this last month has been a disturbingly giddy, but strange duet. Twosome, anybody? Gross! I want just me back. Screw Noel! He's not allowed to invade and make my time our time. Who does he think he is? Man, you give men an inch and they take over your mind.

I've now officially entered the area of twilightus zonus where everything I do somehow relates back to something that Noel is doing. Am I on MSN, strategically, when I know he's home from work? Of course not! Independent, modern chicks of 2008 do not schedule their MSN time around a man. As if! Convincing? I didn't think so. Do I spend an irrational amount of time talking to him when I know I have more important, and pressing things to deal with, such as, hmm, my education? Of course not! I'm acquiring the debt of a small African nation to study in London and I would never compromise that for a man. Did that work? I thought not. As is very obvious I've become an irrational feminine pool of mushy feelings and as such, am sacrificing parts of myself for...a man!? I'm a misogynists dream girl! So willing to give and give, think and think, while I'm not convinced he is doing the same. Hmm.....I smell a double standard. I also smell that I've initiated it.

My escape plan for the twilightus zonus? Well, it's not squeezing through the washroom window in the middle of dinner. It's using thinking to my advantage. No, I will not be thinking about him, instead I will be thinking about not thinking about him....well, at least not as often. I need to recapture my sanity from the dirty grips of yet another man I am just testing out. See, if he works out, it'll be because he wanted it to, not because I obsessed and worked to be there. This time, he'll work to be there, and I'll be sitting back on my polka-dot comforter sipping on chilled mango juice and reading Cosmo as it tells me how to get my man. Shows what they know! I don't have to get him, he'll be coming to me. And if he doesn't, well, I still have a few more hours in the twilight zone to stir up some shit. Ruckus, the greatest liberator. Well, only second to fucking shit up.

What good is a beat if the music is weak?

Hey, what good is a beat if the music is weak?

Check out a little somethin' somethin' from a brotha who knows his women and his soul....
Raheem DeVaughn- Woman

And a ballad from a soulful blues singer and her band......
Grace Potter and The Nocturnals- Apologies

Listening to good music is a pleasure. Sometimes, if you're really lucky, you find the kind of music that makes you feel something, a goosebump or two. It's not worth the effort to wade through the musical crap of the Billboard 200. Luckily, you don't have to resort to the commercial tradition of music charts if you have the beauty of the Internet. I'm a big proponent of using MySpace for finding and following new talent. However, as a person-to-person site MySpace is total shit and full of creepy weirdos (umm, I'm a Facebook person, or as A likes to call it, Stalkbook). Also, amazon.com has a really good customer forum where people put up lists with such topics as "Best Soul Music of the 70s" or "The Best Voices of Neo-Soul" or "Great Women with Guitars". It introduces you to music you never would have found on your own, and you'll end up wondering how you ever lived your life without knowing these underground, under appreciated artists. If you're really lucky you will stumble upon some great, monumental, life altering work. The likes of Esthero, Damien Rice, Animal Liberation Orchestra, Amel Larrieux, Amos Lee, Derek Trucks Band, City & Colour, Goapele, Corneille, Jamie Lidell, The Sunshine Underground, and Nizlopi. I recommend these artists because they are just that, artists. They make music their craft. You can start with the above two tunes....one neo-soul, the other bluesy rock, and I'm sure, within minutes, you'll be feelin' alright....

I'm crushing hard, and I think I like it....

So....I met a boy. Insert high-pitched Japanese schoolgirl giggling. It's pretty pathetic, but I've taken to giggling like some reject transplant from The Valley and I'm about to kick my own ass. I didn't just meet Noel, but I've put off writing a blog about him until I got passed the stage of feeling him out and got to the stage where I wanted him to feel me up. Juvenile, basic, but true. Problem is he lives in Toronto and I'm in London for the next 5 months before I return home. Now, logical and rational girl that I am, I was determined to not get involved. At the very least I planned to slow things down until I got back to Toronto, but that overwhelming "like" feeling sucker punched me and I'm now giggling and mooning through my day. Ugh, its a well known fact I hate overly happy people, and if I smile one more time I'm likely to kill myself out of sheer disgust. I fulfill my teeth showing quota for the day in less than an hour.

His blog alias is Noel, he's 24, an engineer working for a water systems management firm, and a member of Engineers Without Borders. He's totally cute, super nerdy, endearingly awkward and makes me smile with his little speech quirks (he says "right" before he starts any sentence, and he can't ever answer with one "No" or "Yes", its always like "No, no, no...." or "Yes, yes...."). His life is quiet, he calls it boring, but he's not dull, more mellow, calm, and introverted. That's where we differ, of course. I'm a total extrovert, loud, opinionated, out going....and my life is never boring. Still, we manage to have the most random things in common (Napoleon Dynamite, Martin, and the ol' school American Gladiators, 90s style), know the same obscure things things (Garth Brooks alter ego Chris Gaines...umm, don't ask), and have the same answers to questions (quintessential movie of the 90s? Dangerous Minds....thank you Coolio and Michelle Pfeiffer!). He laughs at my jokes, and that's always a plus. He thinks I'm cute, that's a double plus. He calls me a one-woman-show because I'm always talking, but its only because he listens so well. OH, and he apologizes! The last time I heard a man say sorry was months ago, from a cafeteria worker who put too much BBQ sauce on my chicken wings. I'm crushing hard, and I think I like it.

If you know me, you know I have a dating theory. I believe I get one great "like" a year. Last year, Rems, the asshole, lasted through to August before showing the true dickhead inside of him (but I'm not angry, I swear) and that was it for 2007. I had to wait until 2008 to meet a new guy, to get a new great like for the year. What I didn't expect was that it would come so early. This can only go two ways. Either Noel fucks up soon and forces me to spend the next 11 months alone, or he actually, unlike all the others, comes through and I get one hell of a good year. 2008....possibly redeeming itself right before my eyes. Let's all pray for the latter. And if you don't believe in God, just hope really, really, really hard in the direction of the sky....He'll get your point.

Jay just got back from a trip to Central America and came back with a catch phrase stolen from the local banditos of the Costa Rican coastline....Pura Vida. Pure Life. Apparently, so relaxed they are, that anything and everything gets the laid back, been-smokin'-some-herb response of Pura Vida. So, in the spirit of free trade, I too will adopt this saying....Pura Vida, Noel. Fuck shit up and I'm getting my newly adopted Costa Rican amigos to fuck your shit up! Hasta La Vista!

All the Drama with Half the Money

I've decided that in my old age I've garnered a strategic high horse position that perhaps does not equate well with my new soap box tendencies, or better known as my blogging. It's a shitty Monday, and I'm fucked in a not so good way as I find myself in part 3 of my flu trilogy (let's hope I don't pull a Rocky and go beyond this). Illness has a way of making me reflective, or is that contemplative, well, either way Advil has some serious neuro-stimulating capabilities and I've seen the last couple of years of my life in a well documented, our-Florida-trip-with-grandma style slide show in vivid technicolor. And I kinda wish I had some herb so I could forget it all. Ah, unfortunately my very active mind is not only working on the flashback of my days past, but is somehow trying to string together academic sounding sentences about how well I know....hmm, what was that again? shit...oh yeah, participatory development. Something to do with participating in stuff, you know what I mean, its all a blur really and I'm feeling that may be where I'm going wrong. Un-blur mind, un-blur.

So these flashbacks, akin to a little wavy fade out with Wayne's World sound affects, is sort of messing with my system. It seems like because I have a blog I can now vent about other people in ways I never could before, umm if we don't count my mind, screaming into my pillow, or routine visits to my Dr. Phil catchy Texan phrases handbook ("you need to listen to your body because your body is listening to you"...yeah, still trying to figure that one out). I spent last night in a bar full of rowdy, grown but still frat boys at heart, New England Patriots fans finally understanding how the American economy is entering a recession (it's the men, they're like animals, but in human form, and they really like their chicken wings!). That's besides the point, though, because the real meat of the story is the general drama permeating my little corner of the sports bar. It seems that although I have great friends none are apparently too old for drama, and in our collective old age (mid 20s and beyond) the drama just gets juicier and more destructive (with a tiny hint of dysfunction).

I was watching Gossip Girl earlier, but please don't judge me for that. It is clearly the most vapid, and obscenely ridiculous show I have seen since the likes of Beverly Hills 90210 and its Siamese twin (with better cat fights) Melrose Place. The fashion is better, but the melodrama the same. Topics of the day? Gossip and drama. In what form? Obligatory pregnancy scares, the always fascinating eating disorder, lots of unruly sex with multiple partners (STD's don't dare enter the Upper East Side), drinking problems, drug problems, and the must-have great venture to the other side of the tracks to find "the one" while simultaneously showing how "money doesn't matter". Right. So as I bypass writing my paper for my fascination of this project in modern teen life, I find myself mocking the pathetic drama that unfolds in each episode. Until my Advil kicks in and I say to myself...is the drama of my life that much different? As absolutely boring as my life is, my friends tend to add to it with their constant source of TV style antics. Granted we don't go to prep schools or wear couture, but we somehow manage, in our jeans and sneakers, to do just as many fucked up things.

Pregnancy scare anybody? Yeah, quite a few actually. Best friends one day and not the next? Sure, I'll take a couple. Was a boy the culprit? Ah, I would have to say more than once. Drugs? Sure! Alcoholism? Even better! Substance abuse is so the new black. Real life drama is like a painstakingly clear TV screen. This high horse I'm on may have made it difficult to see it very well, but see it I did. And thanks to overpriced, over the counter drugs I even made it a point to think about it as well. The conclusion? Fuck Gossip Girl. Get a slide show of my life and I'll show you ratings. Upper East Side....ha! It doesn't take money to get good drama.

30 seconds into a Boyz II Men song.....

If I've cried once, I've cried a million times for moments like these. Something tells me that those emotions that hide well behind smiles, that are invisible behind laughter are just laying dormant, waiting for that Boyz II Men song. If I had more creativity I'd come up with less cliche music to make me feel those runaway feelings. If only O hadn't been who he was, if R was more discerning, if Jay had more sense, if Rems had a heart, if Moe had opened his eyes, maybe....just maybe, moments like these would be few and far in between. Unfortunately, banking on the actions of others makes it nearly impossible for you to ever get what you want. And so, the result, beyond the years of acceptance and faked nonchalance, is that you're cornered very well by a moody tune or two and feel what you almost believed was unfeelable anymore. Who said music was nothing more than a few words strung together over a predictable melody? Seems to me those melodies do more for my sense of emotion than my everyday life. A cascade of memories, of what-ifs, of regret and each poignant in the almost holy reverence that is one great, cliche musical number.......

Gotta Get My Grass On

Fruits....the fruit of life? Vegetables....the juice of existence? Hmmm, I wonder. As a recent convert to vegetarianism I have to renew my relationship with the food group "fruits and vegetables" and somehow bury my long standing relationship with the "meat and poultry" group. Needless to say it's been a hard sell to my stomach.

This all started with my return to London last week. I got back on the 10th of January and decided to mark it with a brand new me. A vegetarian me. Considering my issues with the new year it was not a resolution, just an expression of an evolving me. A new eating habit to match a new me to match my prodigal return to London. The idea of becoming a vegetarian was fueled by my inability to make the right food choices. Although I am by no means a big eater, usually satisfied with 1 or 2 meals a day, whenever I decide that I should eat it's always something horribly bad for me (McDonald's is the usual go-to). In becoming a vegetarian not only would McDonald's no longer be an option, but I would have to stop and think about every food purchase I make and certainly everything I put into my mouth. It's actually worked. I've eaten more healthy in the last week than I have in the last year.

I've always had dreams of returning home to ooohs and aaahs, to "my God, have you lost weight?", or "you look so different!", and the kicker, "wow, you look so good!". Honestly, I can be as vain as the next girl even if I'm not like that on a regular basis. However, my weight, as fluctuating as it is, has been my Achilles heel, my arch nemesis, my "thing" since I was a teenager. The other side of puberty was a rough time for me, and I feel as if it's now or never, at least in a dietary sense.

It hasn't been so bad. Granted the food choices have dwindled, and I'm taking a very long time deciding what I want to eat in the Starbucks line or at Pret or at Cafe Nero. I assume it's all worth it for the healthy me, and for the fit me and definitely for a more slender me. My fridge is bursting with carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, vegetable stir fry, fat free mozzarella and my pantry with bran cereal (no sugar! I didn't know this stuff existed), bananas, peaches, apricots. I'm a walking poster child for healthy eating now. Well, except for the occasional lapse, but it is early days yet! I'd really like to surprise the people in my Toronto world, I rarely get a chance to do so.

So if I appear grumpy, or maybe snarl a time or two, take pity on me. My stomach is still adjusting, my sugar levels returning to normal, my fat cells being deprived, and my internal balance finally finding its balance. One thing has become apparent to me. As a vegetarian I am now eating the things that real food eats. I'm fighting that soon-to-be-burger-meat cow for my little spot of shaded grass. Gotta get my grass on!

The Bespectacled Mafia and Survival of the Most Colorful

I sit in my classes, surrounded by the British voices of other students that drone on and on about things that make them feel smarter than me, and silently mock them for their sheer naivete in believing this is their defining moment in life. Grad school. As if this is any more important than undergrad, or high school, as if this is the moment where they shine to the bitter disappointment of all the bullies they had while they barely made it through adolescence. And I, hoping to God that grad school isn't the highlight of my life, spend the entire lecture wondering how I ended up in the same classroom as these robots.

In a classroom littered with the minds of tomorrow (what a frightening thought), the men voice their opinions wholeheartedly, the older women (the I'm-not-too-old-for-school ones) find a moment or two to share their worldly experience (usually about the birthing process), and me and M throw in an occasional original thought, cynical as it is, about what it is that we're discussing that day. That's it. The other "girls" in our class scribble down notes as if every worded thought of the professor is a little gold nugget to be saved for a day when they will be asked for their opinion on something. As a previous science student I've had my share of note taking, but considering my programme does not have any exams I feel the need to listen, not scribble. What a waste for these people. As it happens, me and M talk in class whenever we feel the need to discuss something (related or not), and get the dirty looks from the bespectacled mafia (also know as the other students). We are not in high school. His notes are online. Take the sticks from out your asses people, the world will not end if you don't catch one sentence. As the most colorful, opinionated, bold, and vocal in the whole room, me and M are probably hated. Whoopee. Like I care. The thing is I survived high school as a popular, intelligent, athletic, well rounded girl and as a woman, graduate school is not the place where I will break. They can look at me, and judge me, feel smarter than me (because they take notes, and live in the library) and hope I flunk out never knowing that I've made it out one of the hardest universities in the world. Sorry if I'm not so impressed with your degree from Wolverhampton University (come on!). I don't need to flaunt my intelligence, I'm secure enough in my abilities that I'm fine staying quiet in class. And if I don't stay quiet it is not to announce that I'm smart. Honestly, I could give a shit. There is more to life than the few hours spent in a lecture hall. The class has been permeated with a bunch of drab, gray and khaki people. Boring to the point of comatose, and I look around hoping for a sign of life. All I hear is pen to paper and I'm forced back to M.

Yesterday, during a lecture about globalization, M leaned over to me and told me she absolutely hated all the people in that class (immature, but true enough). They are relentlessly pompous and if it wasn't rude to fall asleep during one of their speeches about "development" I would. Suburban, or in their case countryside England, does not give you much understanding of the third world. Stick to Yorkshire pudding. M's comment was followed closely by another stating the girl next to her was a cunt (harsh word, wouldn't have used it myself, but that girl is a prima donna prime bitch...my words). I do believe she may have heard M and then spent the next class they had together staring at her with evil in her eyes (despite the Virgin Mary bracelet adorning her wrist...what would Jesus think?). The dirty look, or dirty staring as it evolved to, shook M up. We met up afterwards (I'm not in that class) and she was very distressed and upset about it. I asked her how she handled it and she told me she just ignored it. You have to understand my surprise. M is a very vocal, outspoken, loudly opinionated woman of 30 years who has been to law school and is uncaring of others opinions. She argues and does not care who hears what and does not mind awkward situations of her own making. I believed, wholeheartedly, in her strength, and ability to defend herself. It seems that although I am more subtle than she is, less willing to be loud and the "quieter" friend next to her, I was stronger when it came to self defence.

I get angry when I'm attacked. I shake, my stomach rolls and my eyes get cold. My face changes, my voice alters and there is hell to be paid. I have the tolerance of a saint, but if you send me over I will give you the wrath of hell. Pacifism is fine for the everyday, but that doesn't mean that I haven't got another side to me. But apparently, M, does not. It was a shock to see her so upset and all I could think was, "just stare at the bitch back!". Intimidation tactics are so obvious. If you have real balls you'll come up to the person, but most people wouldn't dare, which is why they give you bad looks. Staring back is an unexpected surprise response for them and that will stop them right in their tracks. They're too scared to do anything more than look.

For all the friends I have, for all the people I like, I am willing to handle my share of enemies. Sure, it's very hard for me to dislike people, and I think most people would like me, but most isn't all. I'm prepared for that, even if M is not. The Bespectacled Mafia are people who probably don't like me. But who cares? I didn't like them first. It is because I had already decided they weren't "my" kind of people that I don't care if they don't think I'm their kind of person. There are billions of people in this world. I will love many, hate many, and defend myself against many more. I am ready to take that on. I survived high school, I can survive grad school however many gray and khaki people I have to get through. So my world isn't colorful when I have to get my education, thank God for me my whole world isn't my education. The rest of my life is brilliantly colorful, and that's where I reside.