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Movies (4) Photos. (47) Poetry (16) Quotations. (76) Words (15) Writings. (137)

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Chase Away the Everyday And Catch Your Passion

Federico Fellini once wrote, “There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.”

True passion - not the illusion that most people try to pretend is passion, but the all consuming, resolute, constant passion that devours your very existence; the passion that can make a person stop eating, sleeping, working; the passion that disrupts all semblance of peace or harmony in the world; the passion that has the ability to demolish all things in it’s path and deem them suddenly irrelevant. It lies in all of us, stalking our thoughts, waiting for the exact moment you never asked for, the exact moment it is unwanted and unwelcome. Then it wakes up with a furious appetitive and speaks to us… no, yells at us, demanding to be acknowledged… and we have no choice but to ride in the passenger seat and let passion take the wheel. Nothing glorious or magnificent in the world has ever been achieved without passion at the very forefront. It is the foundation of every great moment. The pleasure of love, the ease of hatred, even the ecstasy of grief. Sometimes it is unbearable, sometimes it hurts so much that all we can do is scream silently, trying to banish it back to the depths of our mind. Perhaps if we could live without passion, we would know a world much different from the one we live in today, but it would be hollow, and spineless. Without passion, in all its glory and obscurity we would be empty shells of humanity; we would truly be dead. But no one wants to exist in chaos, and so, we are left with a choice. To either keep our passions at bay, or surrender blindly to them. I choose the latter.

So, if you're like me - chase it, catch it and become your passion. Then never ever let it get away from you.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

STIB #1 : Smoke Two Joints

I put my entire playlist of over 1000 songs on random and decided I would write a blog somehow connected to the first track title I got. I pressed play and got Sublime – Smoke Two Joints. So here it is. The diary of a stoner girl – at the very beginning.

It starts with my family. My mom is a free spirited hippie who is happiest in very small towns, running her own café. Where she can live near the water and have bonfires in her backyard. She paints beautiful pictures and grows a garden every year without fail. She also smokes joints. Pinner ones of whatever weed she manages to find and gets high after one or two puffs. When I was 15 I think she would have allowed me to smoke if I wanted to. But, believe it or not, I didn’t want to. My older sister tried everything from bribery to blackmail – but I always said no. It was my way of rebelling from them. By not smoking weed. Sounds crazy - but it’s all true… and didn’t last long anyways. Lauren was over and we had been drinking the first night I gave in. My sister had brought a glass pipe and reinforcements. They cornered us like flies in a spider web. I remember everyone being so infectiously excited. Like watching a baby walk for the first time. They tried to teach us the proper burning and inhaling techniques. We still burnt our fingers and coughed like the newbs we were. The exhilaration wore off quickly when we realized the price our throats had to pay. We definitely got high though, as they forced us to finish the brimming bowl just to ourselves. We played Sonic and Tails on Sega and laughed our asses off at all the colourful ring games. We munched out furiously on a huge plate of nachos. Courtesy of mom – who laughed at us. It was a great day, and I had a great first experience.

Smoking weed is an accepted thing in my family. Even more then that, it’s embraced and shared together – not as a dangerous or unacceptable drug, but simply as a good time to get away from it all. Even for 5 minutes, we could escape the chaos of the younger sisters, the eternally messy house, the homework, the television, the computer and every other obligation or distraction. My sister, my mom and I would sit on the back door steps every so often and have a moment just for us. Of course if I had anything I wanted to talk to my mom or my sister about, they were always there for me (regardless of weed or not) but I found that when I didn’t need to talk to her about anything specific, we talked instead about the things we truly cared about. The things that had our attention. We were more honest, more comfortable and instead of just my mom, she became my best friend.

We crossed a bridge, and closed the generation gap by resisting societies little boxes, and doing something we enjoyed regardless of who told us it was “wrong”. We learned so much about and from each other, just from a few minutes out of the day where there was no judgment. No guilt or pressure. Almost ritualistic…it was more then an escape. It was like one of those booths at the back of the church, where we were both the priests, on the same side of the screen. I cant believe I just compared smoking weed with my mom to religious confession… and on that note, I’ll leave you now

Friday, May 29, 2009

Heather-Maria

She is timeless, yet ahead of her time; delicate, yet strong; quirky, yet logical; naughty, yet nice. She is carefree with her life and careful with her heart. She reminds you of home, yet there is nothing familiar about her. She is unlike anyone you’ve ever met. She is shy and elusive yet simple and straightforward. She forgives but never forgets. She is caring and loving, yet cold and detached. She lives for no one, yet she lives for everyone. She speaks her mind but knows when to hold her tongue. She is the devil on your shoulder, and the angel in the sky. She wants to laugh everyday, question everything, and learn something. She is one with you, yet a person of her own. She is bittersweet. She is simultaneous.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

If there is one thing left that I would like to do, it's to write
something really beautiful. And I could do it, you know. I could
still do it.

- J B Priestley

Monday, May 25, 2009

While I walk in the forest, I love to:

I took one of those stupid personality tests today and was forced to stop when I got this question:

While I walk in the forest, I love to think about all kinds of things and ideas.
When I walk in the forest, I love to smell the woods and the feel the breeze on my face.

They expected me to choose one or the other. Like people are all narrow-minded stereotypes. While I walk in a forest I love to think AND feel the breeze on my face. I even tried to reason with my initial frustration and thought , okay... well which one do I love MORE? Then quickly realized... no... the question is justifiably frustrating. That's a comparison that can't be made! I've never had to choose one or the other... they always happened at the same time. Did they want me to lie? To fake out an online personality test and just pick (a) because I don't have to move my mouse as far? What if it changes everything and the category I get tossed into isn't the right one?

I took one last look at the question, and then closed the window.

What the fuck was I doing taking an online personality test in the first place?

Saturday, May 23, 2009

My Brother, David

I've met him only once. When I was 13 and went to visit my Dad and Step-mom in Vancouver. (His second wife. He's now on number three). They lived in a huge white house with two kitchens and had a giant trampoline. I was very impressed... and a little nervous about being there... until me and David, who was ten at the time decided to play power rangers. I was the yellow one (cuz the pink one was too girly). I had no idea how to act around anyone else except my sister, who was there visiting with me but David made me feel comfortable and the next few days were pretty exciting. I remember you could squeeze through the hedges in the backyard and emerge into a public swimming pool parking lot. I went there with my sister and a boy flirted with me for the first time in my whole life. I was never one of the girls considered beautiful, or even pretty when I was younger. Mostly because I just didn't care. My bad haircuts were always tangled and I couldn't co-ordinate an outfit to save my life. Jeans and over sized hand-me-down t-shirts were the only things I owned, and I never wanted anything else. I didn't even like wearing shoes and would rip them off whenever given the chance. Me and my oldest sister both got blessed with ears that stick out just enough to create an emotional complex from all the adolescent teasing. Seriously, whoever thought of naming that movie Dumbo... needs to be held accountable. I hate that movie. I also hate monkeys. I suppose this means... I'm not over it yet. I still wear my hair up in a loose, low ponytail... to cover my ears. The day that the older blonde boy offered me some candy however, I had just gotten out of the swimming pool. My hair was wet, and my ears... fully exposed to the world. You have no idea how incredible it felt when my sister informed me (after the boy had left) that he was flirting. I had been flirted with! Even after he saw my ears. AND I had candy! It was shaping up to be a really great vacation, and when we had to leave a few days later... I knew I would miss David. I definitely did not think it would be the last time I saw him in at least ten years. He's 18 now, and today... he added me on facebook. I know what your thinking. Anti social networking activist has a facebook? I signed up when I first moved here 2 years ago, for a random reason and got flooded with requests. After my mom and her second husband split up, we moved around a lot. I went to four different schools in two years, lived in three completely different towns... and my graduating class in high-school had over 200 people. It was, admittedly, very cool to be in touch with so many old friends I thought I had left behind. In an effort to keep it separate from youtube, I made myself a rule. That I would only add people I had actually met and talked to, in real life. I've broken that rule once or twice for people I learned to trust enough, but it took a very long time. My family is on facebook. My best friends and ex boyfriends and co-workers. And now... my brother I havent seen in ten years. My brother I fully expected to never see or hear from again. So I willingly admit that facebook... for me at least, has proved it's worth and no matter how stupid I thought it was every time someone I didnt know tried to add me... this one accepted request, makes all those ignored ones worth it.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Die Twitter DIE

It’s narcissistic and self-indulgent, and ultimately pointless. It makes it seem as though our lives were meant to be public spectacles at all times, and as a private person and someone who shares only what I choose to through my videos, twitter just seems unbelievably excessive. No one cares about what you ate for breakfast, or how bored you are. I will never understand or endorse the need to spew out personal information and senseless thoughts to the entire world in 145 letters or less. And that's completely what Twitter is designed for: it’s a new vice through which you can share stream-of-conscious babblings with your friends and with anyone who has time to lurk on the Web and read inane sentences written by complete strangers.

Is it just me? Am I alone in thinking that twitter is one of the most trivial and over-publicized trends around? Is all human contact destined to be lost forever in a tidal wave of worthless information overloading our brains?

Not trying to sound all high and mighty to those of you who like Twitter or actually use it for something meaningful. I realize there are a percentage of intelligent people using the site who don’t let you know how often they breathe. But you’ve gotta admit, it’s a fuckin' small percentage.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Underappreciated Art of Silence

If there’s one thing I’m sure I’m good at, it’s lying.

From a very young age right up until just a few years ago I am not proud to admit I had a serious problem. It wasn’t just that I lied all the time, or even that it came easily to me… the biggest problem was… I enjoyed it. I found pleasure in testing the limits and seeing just how much I could get away with. Call it mischievous or manipulative or whatever you like - I realize now it’s a worthless way to go through life. A house built of lies has no foundation and no matter how solid the walls are… will always come crumbling down, just as mine did. I am still not sure why I became so trapped by it. Sometimes I think it’s because I wanted to seem interesting… and fit in - but most times I think it’s simply because I was bored. I lived half in the real world and half in the world I imagined for myself.

Now I spend everyday, completely aware of my brain’s conscious effort to always tell the truth. I’ve become very good at keeping my thoughts to myself - and it often gives the first impression of timidity. Not to say I won’t speak up if I feel the need… but I refuse to sugarcoat my opinions. I refuse even the white lies or manipulation of the truth. I also have a tendency to cross the line, and reveal way too much personal information if a discussion is particularly fascinating.

So my solution is to choose silence over lies. It works.

A Cock Between My Legs

Mrs. Devito and the Stoned Classroom Story

When I was 16 I thought there was nothing I couldn’t get away with. One day during lunch I smoked a few joints with some friends and sauntered into my English AP class with red eyes and an extreme lack of focus. I sat down and completely zoned out for a few minutes. The bell rang and I snapped back to reality… slowly realizing… I was much more stoned then I ever intended to be in a classroom. Damn that notoriously potent BC bud. My teacher Mrs. Devito was a petite young blonde woman with glasses and a very soft, soothing voice. We got along just fine because I loved the subject and tended to grace her with my presence more often then not. I was almost always the first person to hand my test in, then spend the rest of the class reading or finishing overdue assignments. I never did homework, and nervously glanced at the board behind that listed the daily class activities. The universe was on my side that day. We had our midterm coming up and she was letting us use the time to study. I had an entire 2 hours to do whatever I needed to, and she would never have to know how incredibly high I was at that moment. She also announced she would begin by reading us a few chapters of James Frey’s ‘A Million Little Pieces’. A very visual, descriptive story of one man’s struggle through a rehabilitation program. Mrs. Devito chose the very gritty chapter when he desperately needs dental work done, but cannot be administered drugs of any kind as a clinic rule and is fully aware and feeling every little bit of pain. Then the universe turned on me. My tiny little teacher had a massive cough attack that wouldn’t stop. She turned directly to me, eyes catching mine for just a second too long, handed me the book and hauled ass to the bathroom without a word. The entire class was staring at me. I broke into nervous sweats and fumbled with the pages, trying to find the spot she had just finished. Oh crap oh crap….oh crap… I wish I had been paying more attention. I started at a random paragraph thinking no one would notice. Of course the fat girl at the very front of the classroom turned around and piped in with a “we’ve already read that part” in a tone that not only made me feel completely retarded, but sounded very much like she was envious that the teacher had given the book to me instead of her. I threw her my most sinister glare, her eyes went wide and she turned back around without another word. A friend took pity on me and showed me where to start. I don’t know if I can even describe what it felt like to be completely fucked up and read a play by play of some guys teeth getting pulled out while he was fully aware and conscious. Out loud. To an entire classroom. It was not fun, and after that day, I never again showed up stoned to English class. My teacher told me a few months later she could smell the weed as soon as I walked in, and gave the book to me on purpose.
Touché Mrs. Devito. Touché.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Wild Child

Sometimes I think a woman's back can be more appealing then the obvious body parts usually noticed by the opposite sex. The lines and curves just scream sexuality. I particularly like this picture because it seems like I'm about to take off my pants.

Dear Feminists, Grow Some Balls.

I’ll bet you never thought you’d read about a motivated, intelligent woman who hates feminism, but here it is. I understand the need to speak up for the women in some third world countries who are still being mistreated - but it is the Western feminists that need a serious re-awakening. The ones who host televised events and challenge the most minuscule law discrepancies at the supreme court. Then they go home to their beauty magazines and soap operas feeling victorious because they've "won" something. The very idea of it all makes me feel like an old black and white cartoon character with steam blowing out my ears. Just re-reading that paragraph creates serious face wrinkles and I fight against clenched fists just to get these words out. It makes women seem like we need a whole fucking movement to prove ourselves. It’s completely useless and hypocritical to beg for equality and then turn around and demand special treatment. Okay we got dealt a shitty hand back in the day and that damn bible sure wasn’t on our side but take a look around. We moved up in the world. We can sit wherever we like on the bus, we’re allowed on the golf course as soon as it’s open in the morning. We can drive, vote, and drink at the same age as men.We are not bound by any laws that have been passed without our voice or representation. These changes were inevitable as society progressed, but were not created by marching in pink parades or hosting weekly luncheons to bitch and complain - but by demanding human rights. HUMAN rights, not women’s rights. We are only further degrading ourselves by creating a distinction. I’ve never seen a Man’s Rights parade. The very idea seems laughable.

Lillian Hellman once wrote, “No one can argue any longer about the rights of women. It's like arguing about earthquakes.”

I couldn’t have put it any better. We’ve already made it to the forefront of the human social chain and need to stop pretending we are still so incredibly hard done by. It was a long journey, and none of it was easy, but that doesn’t make us weak. Men never had to work to achieve equality because they started out superior. We are letting them stay that way by catering to this notion that we require a feminist revolution to make a difference. This all might sound crazy coming from me – but just think about one last thing for me…. what’s the opposite of Feminism? Masculism? I’ve never heard of it. In fact, this spell check doesn’t even register it as a word. It doesn’t exist.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Parenting in My World

Quotes From DAD

"We know we are going to die... but we still want to live. That is the dichotomy of our existence."

"Forgive everyone for everything they have ever done to you. Then you can forgive yourself."

"There are no 'shoulds' in life. Everything that has happened and will happen, is exactly how it was meant to be. We have no right to question the ways of the world."

"Don't marry someone you love. Marry someone who loves you."

"The successful people in life think only in terms of I can, I will, and I am – not I’ll try, I should and I might."

"The greatest joy in life is to examine oneself and find sincerity."

"Love is not something you can get. It's only something you can give."


Quotes From MOM

"The best way over one, is under another."

Robert McKee and Keyboard Therapy

I’ve been writing a lot these past few days, neglecting youtube and my new IM addiction, which I can’t even say I feel bad about. My gritty feature length drama about love, drugs and obsession is still in the re-write stage but I created two amazing new scenes, and felt an all too familiar sense of loss as I deleted a scene I loved – but was unnecessary. I finished at least ten pages of my novel in progress, spent hours researching the details of my newest script idea and finished the treatment. I looted scriptwriting blogs for tips and ordered McKee’s STORY from Amazon. The screenwriting format bible.

(Robert McKee… I love you. Let’s have an affair. You can whisper sweet nothings in my ear about characterization, and the importance of setting limitations. The inciting incident gets me to dinner, the first act to your bedroom, the second to your bed… and the action rises… to the unbelievable conflict-resolving climax. We go with a slow curtain and open ending. To let the Viagra wear off. Very unlike Hollywood. Your wife finds us. Oops.)


Okay so McKee is brilliant, perhaps godly... but insanely unattractive and all that was simply because I love the innuendo associated with a script time line.

Writing is not just my profession, or my passion… it’s a part of who I am.

When I read the words I’ve created afterwards… a warm sense of pride and sincerity washes over me. I hope it lasts all night. I’ve been having scary dreams.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Eyebrows Don’t Lie

I met a man named Akhil on Monday when I went for lunch at the Outback Steakhouse in the city. He approached me as I was clamoring into the awkward stool/chair at my table for one. I’m not a graceful person, although I thankfully posses a high level of common sense that stops me from completely embarrassing myself. I am constantly ten times more aware then the average person of each and every glass window, crooked step, speed bump and slippery floor around me. That Monday I was also wearing my black leather boots, with the potentially dangerous two-inch heels. Those paired with the artfully pre-faded, pre-ripped jeans, over-sized plaid button up and low-cut tanktop didn’t exactly scream sophisticated. Akhil looked to be in his late 40’s with a very neat, refined appearance and high-priced suit. An attractive man… in that “if only I was 20 years older” kind of way. His eyes were gentle, but still full of judgment as he glanced from my chewed-off fingernails to the very noticeable tear-drop scar on my left hand. We introduced ourselves and I asked him about his three excessively expensive looking gold rings, knowing it would only further convince him of his very wrong first impression. He was about to reply, with a grin I had seen all too often - when his eyes shifted suddenly to one of my shopping bags. From National Bookstore. There, sitting visibly seen through the thin plastic was The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud. He smiled in a very different way and smoothly shifted the subject away with such ease that I pretended not to notice. This man's ability to completely withdraw his previous opinion of me in just one simple glance immediately impressed me. He was a psychologist, and the ice was not broken, but melted away… just like that. The fluidity of our conversation was something to be marveled at. It was quick, humored, intellectual and profound all at once. He didn’t just wait for his chance to talk and our words bounced off each other in a way made me forget all about the menu in my hands. We discussed political corruption and the true nature of tyranny. He politely challenged my opinions on religion, his eyebrows raised in slight surprise every time I made any kind of relevant argument. He tried to hide it, tried to mask the shock that this clumsy little girl dressed half rocker chick half farm girl wasn’t afraid to disagree with the tall powerful Arab man in the 200 dollar shoes– but the eyebrows don’t lie. It didn't bother me in the slightest. We flitted from subject to subject. Vehemently rambling on about spiritual awakenings and miracles. Both the lies and truths behind the concept of id, ego and super ego. The underlying themes of numerous old Hitchcock movies and why we both hated ‘The Birds.’ It was both confusing and invigorating to sit back after he had left and contemplate all the ideas still twirling around my mind. I slowly wrapped them back into their new places, smiled and promised myself I would write about it soon.

I always keep my promises.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Self Cock Worship

While doing a bit of..."research" for my ladies night script. I came across a cry for help posted in the Human Sexuality forum with the topic HOW TO MAKE OUR SEX LIFE MORE INTERESTING. After being prompted to affirm that I am over 18, I scroll down a bit to read some of the answers.

A man from Toledo Ohio, who lists: God and his wife Jovil under his "I belong to:" category writes this:

"Hetero females can't be rammed violently and stroked sensitively for a long session like that without losing their minds with pleasure unless they hate you or they aren't interested in you and what you're doing."

Preceded by a list of common positions and the instructions to "ram her at various speeds, depths, and angles."

Holy shit. I don't even know where to begin. I feel a strange pity for Jovil and what must be an orgasm-free marriage. She's probably cheating on him.

Not only does this man's level of certainty and unwavering belief in what he's talking about make me laugh, it also frightens me. Is this seriously how the typical male mind works?

If you have a penis and were nodding vehemently in agreement with the religious man from Ohio, then please, for the sake of women everywhere, read the following.. and pay VERY close attention.

The positions, speed and angles play a minuscule role. For me... and I think for most women... it's about loss of inhibition. The ability to be free and confident. To embrace the moment, take a risk. Sex scares the shit out of me - but its the ability to overcome that fear and literally "open" up to someone that creates the excitement. Anticipation is more important then foreplay - although come on boys - don't rush it. (My personal rule - anything under 20mins... and you better believe I'm waking you up in an hour to start again). It's really all about comfort. Even a one night stands need a certain level of ease or believe me, the girl's not going to be willing to get naked and penetrated by someone she feels awkward about. Unless she's supremely wasted. Then its desperate, sloppy, messy half-assed sex that isn't worth it. Plus she'll hate you after and tell all her gossipy friends that you "took advantage". Not a good idea.

Now I'm rambling. But seriously guys - comfort. Comfort and anticipation. You can ram her all you want later, the hard part is getting there.

As for Toledo Christian man with no idea how to treat a woman. Another comment left on that forum says it best.

"Come now. While you obviously worship your own cock, it's vain to expect every "hetero" woman you're with to worship it as well."

Friday, May 8, 2009

Misconcieved Risks

Who knows what true happiness means? Not the conventional word - but the naked terror. The realization. The conscious recognition of contentment. What happens when we finally remove the masks and break the walls?

Is it crazy that I am afraid to let myself be happy? Afraid of taking a chance, trusting too soon and having it all end in tears and illusion.

Paulo Coelho once wrote “"You have to take risks. We will only understand the miracle of life fully when we allow the unexpected to happen. Everyday we have the sun, we have one moment and the ability to change everything that makes us unhappy. Everyday we try to pretend that we haven't perceived that moment, that it doesn't exist – we pretend that today is the same as yesterday and will be the same as tomorrow. But if people really pay attention to their everyday lives, they will discover that magic moment."

But it’s not that easy. It never is. Everyday life is beautifully twisted and seems to slap me in the face with circumstance, opportunity or ultimate failure. The eyes of strangers stray over my appearance, from head to toe, judgment clouding everything they perceive me to be and… it hurts. Those preconceived notions make me afraid to find my magic moment. Afraid to show the world who I am – and I am so fucking sick of it.

I’m tired of living my life hidden in a dark corner.

Coelho also wrote “"Pitiful is the person who is afraid of taking risks. Perhaps this person will never be disappointed or disillusioned; perhaps she will not suffer the way people do when they have a dream to follow. But when that person looks back (and at some point, everyone always looks back) she will hear her heart saying "What have you done with the miracles planted in your days? What have you done with the talents bestowed upon you? You buried yourself in a cave because you were fearful of losing those talents. So this is your heritage: the certainty that you wasted your life."

I won’t be that girl. I refuse to be that girl.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Crazy Bitch Crystal

So it’s about 1 am on a Friday night a few years ago and I’m sitting in my favorite blue chair playing Final Fantasy VII and eating gummy bears (only the red and white ones). My crappy ass apartment is filled with bongs, beer bottles and mass amounts of thick black cords run across the floor everywhere. From the huge 60disk stereo, to the computer, to the TV to all the different video game systems. This might make better sense if I tell you a little bit about Jeff. He’s my roommate. He’s a very... threatening, harsh kind-of guy – but not to me. He’s also one of my best friends, a complete stoner, a chaotic drunk, has a great sense of humor, and is obsessed with all things electronic and shiny. His prized possession is his high-tech universal remote. It can control all previously mentioned consoles. There are posters of half-naked girls all around the living room walls. I don’t mind because Jessica Alba’s beside Jenna Jameson and even my mind wanders if I stare at them too long. There’s also a Resident Evil poster of a guy brutally carving a zombie’s head open with a chainsaw. It’s awesome.


Anyways, back to the story. Its 1am on my very thrilling Friday night, Jeff’s asleep upstairs and there’s a knock at the door. My supremely wasted friend Amber is half-dragged on to my couch by a guy I’ve never met. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, although it’s usually a taxi driver helping her to the door. I get her a water bottle and a blanket then turn my attention to the stranger in my house. He says his name is Jeremy and he doesn’t really know Amber very well, but she was threatening to walk home alone. I offer to smoke a bowl with him in thanks, thinking to myself “well damn, he sounds like a nice guy.” That would be mistake number one on this long road to two black eyes. Number two is when I offer him a beer and take one for myself. We play some blackjack, talk about mutual friends (he was in my older sisters graduating class) drop sexually suggestive hints back and forth and promptly run out of beer. As the fates would have it – Jeremy reveals he only lives about a block away, and (miraculously) has more beer there. The next few hours are a little hazy. I remember a little rat-looking dog attacking my heels on the walk and blackjack somehow turning into strip blackjack after a few more beers.

Then suddenly it’s morning, and I wake up, in Jeremy’s bed… painfully. There is a tall blonde beefy girl I’ve never met before already crouched on top of me, throwing her fists directly into my face as hard as she can. I’m also naked from the waist up. Instinct takes over and I raise my hands to cover my face, elbowing psycho bitch in the nose on the way. She starts to bleed everywhere and I’m still so disorientated that I think it’s my blood all over the place. So I freak out and scream and thrash around. Jeremy and his roommate finally hear me from upstairs and come to the rescue. They manage to pry Blondie’s claws out of my face, but not before she rips out my eyebrow ring. A last huzza just incase I wasn’t fucked up enough. I grab a shirt that’s not mine and haul ass to lock myself in the bathroom as the girl I would later come to know as Crystal started crying/screaming/breaking shit. I stay in there for a good 30mins as one eye goes bright red and swells shut, and the other turns a beautiful shade of purple. Then I decide it’s safe to show my disfigured face, and emerge to an empty room. I immediately gather up all my shit. I’m almost out the door when Jeremy finds me and stammers an explanation. I hear “ex-girlfriend” (as of 2 days ago), “still has a key”… and then stop listening. He tries to say I’m sorry. I shove him out of my way, tell him to go fuck himself and disappear.

EPILOGUE: He tried to call me a few days later. I changed my number. Jeff ran into him at Denny’s late one night, and they had a minor tussle. He never bothered me again. I met Crystal again at a bar a few months later. She didn’t even recognize me.

All that pain, and I didn’t even have sex with the guy. What a fuckin’ bitch.

if you happen to be a billionaire...