Kate says the year has been like eating a raw egg everyday;
Peter says it's been like wearing a bag of rocks on your head;
Heather-Maria says it's been like a pack of wild dogs who have stumbled across an abandoned meat hangar;
and smiles because she clearly... is the winner.

HEAR ME.

In my pursuit of meaningful writing, one thing remains clear. I need to choose my words as others would choose how they solve algebra. With precision, with caution, and with the hands of an artisan. I need to melt words into one another. I need to stop, tilt my head, and listen to the echo of each sentence. I need to notice the paragraphs of emotional resonance or even, the perfectly tuned reverberations that come from freedom and pain and love and fear. Sound waves written down and answered by the influence of those who listen. Words are not just seen, they are not just letters sitting vacant, they are products of the individuals inner magic, buried until we create them with the intent to be heard.

callous disregard for youtube admirers

Today I finally checked my youtube mail, something I have come to believe is a very subtle type of torture. Not knowing what words I’m about to see, or if I have the willpower to disregard the negative ones. I hope that you, dear reader, are smart enough to gather that… today, I failed in the attempt. Hence the title of this post, which comes from yet another David. What is it with that name and the useless desire to try and tell me all about myself? No offense Dear David W, but I don’t owe you anything. Never have and never will. So call me evil, or disgusting, or exclusive… call me whatever the fuck you want actually, just don’t waste my time by writing it all out and pressing send. I am not one of those youtube super egos that replies to every comment or message left by a fan, no matter how admiring you might be. Ask some long time followers, even the ones in my “privileged little circle of beautiful people”. I fall off the radar easily, and don’t enjoy typing out the same answers to the same damn questions I’m asked over and over again. You are free to interpret that lack of action in whichever way your judgment-clouded mind sees fit… but you won’t be right. In thanks to your recent bout of assumption driven bullshit… you won’t ever get the chance to stumble across any sincere realization of the girl typing behind this screen, and by now, wouldn’t want to anyways. So either we’ve both just won, or we’ve both just lost. I’m not sure… but I am sure I don’t give enough of a fuck to wonder about it even one more second.

All my love,
Heartless bitch Heather-Maria.

TRUE love.

(A paragraph from my current novel)

For a minute it’s quiet, and his eyes are already half-closed. I’m so close that I can feel his breath quicken as the air slowly heats up around us. He reaches out and pushes a stray hair out of my face. His hands are soft. So soft I can barely feel his fingertips as our eyes meet. One hand wanders for a moment, briefly twining with his own before settling gently on his chest. I feel his heart beating faster as the line of no return continues to blur. I can almost smell his overwhelming desire taking hold of all rationality. The sweat from his arms meeting my skin. The nervous twitch of a foot. He's holding back, he’s trying not to give in, trying to hide how much he wants… but it's too late. Whatever reservations we had before have slipped quietly into the fiery power of this moment. The whole room seems fainter, and I’m reminded of that deceptive stillness before the hurricane I know is coming. And cum he does. Releasing himself completely with a guttural moan, his warm and salty juices tickling the roof of my mouth. I lick it all off like a good little girl, pushing the limits of his pleasure... and then lean back to watch his whole body shiver and sink deep into the sofa.

seriously WTF?

I made the mistake of meandering on over to some blogs in the self-proclaimed “philosophy” category… and suddenly feel a whole lot like a retard at an advanced physics lecture. What the fuck are these people really talking about?… and more importantly… why does philosophy seek to exclude anyone who hasn't memorized the entire dictionary? Below I’ve compiled a list of all the sentences I could find that are either (a) kind-of confusing or (b) completely fucked. Leaning heavily towards (c) incomprehensible, and in turn, transformed them into either (a) not-so confusing or (b) so fucking simple.

“Rational entitlement to comprehension is not generated solely by present experience, but by experience in conjunction with the prior metaphysical and experiential standing of the subject.”
a.k.a. Knowledge comes not only from what is happening now, but also from previous thoughts, experience and opinion.

“Experience is seen as analogous to a function or ‘argument schema’, such as modus ponens, which maps subjective views onto judgments.”
a.k.a. Experience is similar to the design of a simple if-then argument, when judgment is combined with only one side of the story. 

“The resulting theory aims to remain entirely neutral on ontological issues whilst enabling experience to make a rational contribution to knowledge despite its non-propositional structure.”
a.k.a. The result remains neutral on the existence of God, and at the same time relates experience to knowledge, despite the theories lack of proven truth.

Maybe it's a natural arrogance that comes with the subject, or maybe it's a way to try and avoid misinterpretation by creating new, impossibly complicated ways to twist simple ideas into a mess of the least used words in the average vocabulary, but whatever the reason... it's completely unnecessary. Makes a little more sense that the idiots of the world seem to stay idiots. No one smart enough to change their minds can speak the same language."Yes Billy Bob" says Mr. Philosopher "the adherence to questionable methodological principles seems to be motivated more by a desire for logical tidiness and consistency than phenomenological accuracy." I'm sure he knows exactly what you mean.

wonderland.

If only you could see me now. I wonder what you’d say, I wonder how you’d look at me… and I wonder if your mind would change. If you could see the tear stained sheets, and brimming balcony ashtray. Proof that I tried to smoke away the feeling that no one really cares. Pretended it didn’t matter. Convinced myself into apathetic delusions… because, of course, it does matter. It matters tonight, that I’m here... sitting at home. My good clothes tossed on the floor and replaced with boxers and a t-shirt. Here I am… writing to strangers who couldn’t make this go away even if they tried. Strangers that somehow feel closer then anyone I see everyday. I’d love to blame the not-friends that circle in and around my life, but it’s not the first time I’ve been left behind… it’s just the first time I let it matter so much. I wonder what’s changed. I wonder what I can do to make it easier. I wonder why I’m suddenly so afraid of the solitary confinement I once cherished. I wonder if it will all seem better tomorrow.

...she wrote with the slightest hint of pessimism.

Oh sure. It's exactly like true love.... if scaled by the hourly rate of some filthy back door motel room where paper-bagged harlots trade orgasms for cash and cash for candy that comes individually packaged in it's very own AIDS stained needle.

I'm dying to live in a world where everything doesn't feel the same as nothing.

Humanities ravenous appetite for indifference consumes most of us... with it's tendency to rape the truth and sincerity out of anyone who's not drowning in their own fear of reality. But not me. Oh no. I have the pathetic desire to see what's really in front of me... and the ignorant audacity to call it beautiful.

It's always been, and always will be about avoiding the curse of a monotonous excuse for existence.

the WRONG way

I've been watching way too much Californication. WAY too much. It has me wanting to write something worthy of Palahniuk, or Vonnegut or Selby. Of course, that's asking for the impossible...but I spent the better part of today coming up with something... anything that might shock or disturb humanity out of the straight-edged addiction to the same old story. Here's a little taste.

"I can’t help myself. The man’s got a target in his pants and I never miss a shot. Unaware of my intention to fuck his world inside out, he pretends to listen intently to Gucci Barbie’s champagne soaked tirade as she bounces her fake tits all over his wallet. He’s been watching the door all night, silently aching for someone better to come along. I wish I could say I fancied it a challenge but the black coffee truth is, no one surprises me. They all start by admitting they want a little bit more of that sweet cream in their cup, and finish with it dripping from the mouth of their next empty conquest. A circle of steaming shit stains, polished and scrubbed clean only to get pumped full of garbage again... and smile while simultaneously hating every second of it."

dominos.

So it starts. The unfolding of a story I've been dying to tell. A story about me that isn't about me at all. I have over 30 pages now, but I'll just share the beginning with you. Avid followers, please forgive the first little bit, for it is a repeat post.

Chapter One
“The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” The flick of my adolescent life’s very first domino happened in ninth grade when my historically crumbling high school decided locker partners would be the simplest way to deal with the sudden surge in student enrollment. Assigned locker partners. “Shoji…you’re with Lindsey,” my teacher called out, and I summoned a rare moment of bravery, allowing myself one fleeting glance. The gorgeous creature that was Lindsey Swan swirled out of her chair and, although I had every intention of playing it cool, this particular girl had perfected the art of inherent seduction. I stared helplessly as she swung her perfect legs to one side of the desk, threw me a polite smile and in one majestic movement, swept up and plucked a lock from the cardboard box near the door. I was busy thanking God for both springtime and miniskirts when I realized she was looking at me. Oh ya… Shoji Katō. That was me. I paused for another moment to curse my overly proud Japanese father for not giving me a normal name, stumbled awkwardly out of my chair and then out the door. In the thirteen steps it took me to reach the locker, I coordinated the perfect thing to say, but it seems Lindsey beat me to it.

“I’ll go on top,” she proclaimed, completely oblivious to the statements affect on my hormone-plagued mind. She then turned around and promptly started filing her thick, shabby textbooks onto the upper shelf.

“Yeah… okay,” I replied, immediately struck with the overwhelming desire to bury my head in the floor. Two monosyllabic grunts had now begun the only real conversation I’d ever had, with the hottest, most sought after girl in school. So I filed my books below hers in silence, uncomfortably aware of our shoulders as they softly collided every so often. She smiled and made the tiniest of giggles every time it happened, seemingly just fine with having me that close to her. I couldn’t help the foolish grin that slid up my face as my ego inflated... and she caught me.

“What are you smiling so big about?”

I denied any such action, buying time to think up something clever and provoking more hand to arm contact when she nudged me playfully, purring her best persuasion techniques.

“I was just thinking… I always imagined you as the girl who would like it better on top.”

Her eyes widened as the joke set in and I swear I could feel the perception shift as she let out a musical laugh and nudged me a little more, this time with her hip pressed into mine.

“Oh you know what I meant.”

And I’m sure I must have, although at that moment, I hadn’t the slightest clue what was happening. Lindsey Swann had just talked to me, laughed at something I said, and invoked physical contact undeniably categorized as flirting. This was already the best year ever.

"I find it strange that in a city of 30 million people, I'm still reaching out for someone who isn't there."

trouble trove

In my youth I did some very morally questionable things. Needless and excessive amounts of drugs, vandalism, nudity, bribery, malicious lying, extreme drunkenness followed by extreme vomiting, promiscuity bordering somewhere near nymphomania and all other manners of sinfully deviant behaviour. But the miraculous fact remains to be… my age. I’m in constant awe of how much trouble I managed to fit into those few years of self-destruction; how many misfit mishaps I tossed around. A wild child just figuring out who she was, who she wanted to be later… and who she didn’t want to be ever again. I’ve been there. I’ve got the t-shirt. I’ve then trashed the t-shirt, doused it in butane, torched it, and threw it at someone. I got all the inner teenage angst out of my system… fast. I worked out my twisted abandonment issues with acid trips, corporate kleptomania, passionate sex games and a lot of tequila. A ferocious circle spilled its way into every little corner of my life. Until Adam came along. He was the front of house manager at my work, a long time friend, and crush of mine who understood the potential risks that came along with having me as a girlfriend. He took a chance anyway and we became an “item”. It didn’t take long for my life to completely switch gears as I separated myself from the drug-induced coma crowd and finally hopped off the lethargic treadmill I had confined myself to. We played poker a few times and he won rarely. Our first kiss was immediately followed by our first… everything and the more time I spent at his place, the more I became increasingly attracted to his roommate and less attracted to him. Turns out it didn’t matter since he dumped me later that same week; at two in the morning with a drunk phone call. Grapevine news spread like wildfire that he had hooked up with another girl a few hours later. I saw it coming, and moved on (although not without a few unexpected tears).

It could have been his plan all along, to nurture the broken girl back to societies moral standards and leave her in the dust once she had been successfully rehabilitated… but it didn’t work right away. I flitted and faltered a few times, running back to the familiarity I sought within chaos. I stole my next boyfriend from a two-year relationship and didn’t even blink an eye. I tried a few new drugs (see: Ketamine, GHB) and blamed everything on someone else. Eventually though, after a few more rock bottom falls, I remembered how it felt to be immersed in Adam’s world; I remembered the peace that wrapped around my mind and body; and I remembered waking up happy in my own bed, instead of some crack-house basement mattress, shivering. The memories alone were enough for me to grow some new wings and fly away again. Literally this time, as I headed to the Philippines and became the lonely stoner you know today. I’m still not sure if this is a happy story or not, but I smile when I think about it anyways. I’m 21… and I already have so much to write about. Kinda makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Don’t be afraid of the unknown.
It’s not that easy.
Sure it is.
Well what about you?
Me?
What are you scared of?

...Being ordinary.

iBITE my nails.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve bitten my nails. A few years ago my friend Amber (who worked at one of those nail salons and had some fancy name she called herself... re: aesthetician) decided I needed acrylic nails. Fucking. Really. Stupid. Decision. My life was fucked upside down from the minute I tried to push the salon door open. Keyword: tried. Over the next week, I realized a few very important elements of my life. First, I was a short order cook and used my hands for handling raw food, very hot objects and sharp shiny things at a pace that had amateurs in tears. Not to mention I did it all in style, with a black baseball cap on backwards and disgustingly grease-caked skate shoes. Try matching that to long plastic pink things expertly glued on your fingertips. Then, I was a chronic stoner, and held the crown for speed rolling, immediately lost the minute those damn nails showed up. Not to mention grinding weed, packing bowls, lighting bowls, cleaning bongs. Also, I was an independent, adult human being. Expected to be perfectly capable of doing up my own buttons and zippers, opening shampoo bottles, and holding a toothbrush. I was useless. Completely and utterly useless, temporarily driven to insanity by a ridiculous and superficial custom. Ladies who can pull it off, I applaud you, for it is much more difficult then it seems, and while you may be able to bear the everyday torture… I could not, and don’t believe I’ll ever try again. So yeah. I bite my nails. Because I have to.

HITLER WAS AN IDIOT

I hate people who try to rationalize evil and claim Hitler, or Stalin, or any other manic tyrant to be brilliantly intelligent. Sure, they were infatuated with power, and at some point all managed to fuck up the whole world. But if they were smart, truly smart in my definition of the word, they would have realized that their motives were fuckin crazy from day one… and no amount of blood overflowing the streets would make any of it any better. Smart people avoid death, destruction and chaos, because they don’t need it to accomplish their rise to power. It’s the weak and heartless that fall back to the fear mongering, the epitome of controlling the masses, the cowards excuse to murder rape and pillage in the name of their cause. Of course, that means we as a world race… must be REALLY fucking stupid, because we fall for it, over and over again. Learning nothing from history. Re-writing the same malicious stories with different coloured inks. Justifying our own apathetic attitudes and blindly following the leader without question.

people always leave

Online friendships of any level are fleeting. They come and go and come and stay and go as fast as they started all over again. Circling the bridge between all things genuine, and all things temporary. Expectations flutter and fall in silence, no one voicing their inner longing for the people who have vanished to different things. Better things maybe. But it doesn’t make the pain any less. It just makes it easier to pretend it was inevitable and in all probability, doomed from the first e-mail, or comment, or skype meeting. Of course, it happens in the offline world too, but seems to me that the consequences are more meaningful. That the loss of a friendship hurts a little more, and matters a little more. That even if you know its simply because you’re busy with changing priorities or moved on to a different lifestyle altogether, it still creeps under your skin, and you take a minute to realize the impact that individual had on your life, even if it was only for a week or two. Even if it was only for a minute. But here, with the easy typing and convenient access, there is no remorse. There is no appreciation. Just as fast as they came, just as fast as you care about them… they don’t care anymore, and leave. So you convince yourself to let it go. You convince yourself that’s how it always happens, and concede to an online world without that person in it. I find it strange how I hide behind the tense of “you” or “person” when the subject matter is innately personal. When what I mean to say is… “I care about them.” Gone now, for whatever reason, I want those people (if they ever stumble across this entry) to know who they are, and know that however fleeting, you all still matter to me and always will, even if I’ve been tossed aside and forgotten. I’m here, a real person on the other side of this screen… and I’ll remember enough for the both of us.

mnemosyne

How very fitting it turns out to be that Mnemosyne, daughter of Earth, granddaughter of Chaos, mother to the muses, lover of Zeus, and the creator of memory and reason… is nearly forgotten. Whispered in the writings of Greek legends, it is she who first gave us designation, recognition, recollection, acknowledgment and imagination. There are very few written accounts of her legends, and I think I like it that way.  "Please assume ... that there is in our souls a block of wax, in one case larger, in another smaller, in one case the wax is purer, in another more impure and harder, in some cases softer, and in some of proper quality...Let us, then, say that this is the gift of Memory, the mother of the Muses, and that whenever we wish to remember anything we see or hear or think of in our own minds, we hold this wax under the perceptions and thoughts and imprint them upon it, just as we make impressions from seal rings; and whatever is imprinted we remember and know as long as its image lasts, but whatever is rubbed out or cannot be imprinted we forget and do not know."


(Socrates to Theaetetus. Plato, Theaetetus 191d).

is ignorance bliss?

When I was a child I thought casually. I considered ideas and perceptions and all matters of my swirling mind to simply be… white noise. The background music to the movie of my life. I lived in the moment as it was happening, enthralled by my environment alone and dancing to a tune no one could hear. I could run and jump and play and swim and fall and laugh and cry, somehow immersed in it all without succumbing to empathetic fixation on the hardships I couldn’t change, or didn’t understand. I sought adventure and joy within my actions, not my thoughts. I believed going for a walk could change the world. But it can’t. As I grew up, I understood that my world, was not the only one. I tore myself from the little farmville fantasy, left the rural cabin, pigs, chickens, greenhouses and bonfires behind… to be slapped in the face with the real world. Where everything was rushed and sincerity faded into little corners that become harder to find everyday. Lines were thick and crossing them meant social exile. A deathly consequence by the scale of others. A book I loved enough to read three times describes all the negativity, all the devils on shoulders, the doubts setting simple thoughts into complicated darkness, and the author gives it a name that slithers fear into me. He called it The Other. The one provoking you to hesitate, to lash out, to judge without mercy or compassion, to hate, to distrust, and to harm others. The Other in my life, wasn’t powerful until the others around me decided to force social, habitual, irrelevant customs into my personality. Within in a few months I realized I had to give up and give in, or be forced into the previous world I loved. The world no longer considered good enough. The others fed my Other until it couldn’t eat anymore, and took over. I learned the names of all the Spice Girls, I bragged about boys that liked me, I abused other little girls who were considered “uncool” despite the inner nudge that reminded me what it felt like when that was me being ridiculed. I lied with no purpose but self gain. I decided I was too good for the company of losers. I desired trivial objects and toys so much that it consumed me completely within days. I tossed aside those same toys just as quickly, and desired new ones. I considered the activities I had once coveted, to be secrets. I hid most of who I really was, convincing myself that it was better to be who they wanted me to be. Some days I wish more then anything, that there wasn’t so much fluff in life. That we all weren’t forced into this fishbowl. Everyone looking in with importance, and us looking out with insignificance. Go away others, and take my Other with you. It's not welcome here anymore.

Culture Qualms

I drift through a seasonless world. Building up immunities to the heat wave trails, day long traffic attacks, sweat soaked road sweepers and street beggers. I laugh, but not all my laughter. I cry, but not all my tears. I smile. I nod politely. I have mastered the inherent art of avoiding eye contact. I hate avoiding eye contact. I hate polite nods. I want to laugh until I cry, and stand still for a minute. “But it’s different here.” What a twisted excuse. It’s different everywhere. What is it about “culture” that makes us swell up with pride? Some traditions are irrelevant. Only accepted because we humans are persistent animals intent on hoarding the familiar. Separating ourselves. Creating herds, packs, groups. Inventing the word ‘exclusive.’ Eye contact. Fuck. How important do you really think that tradition is? It’s not even “eye contact” at all. It’s just looking at someone’s eyes. We all have tedious customs drilled into our very natures, and I suppose a few different people decided looking at someone’s eyes must have a deeper cause behind it.. or two.. or five.. or ten. Then they categorized us. By location. Oh yes. Find true meaning in your physical point on the crust of the Earths surface. It’s not interesting, it’s meaningless and I will not concede to indifference or acceptance of these habitual conformities. I will, however, admit I am not brave enough to try and boldly look at the eyes of those who don’t think like I do. I don’t have the patience to try and explain this theory to everyone I meet or the ability to actually care about the endless stream of argument and misinterpretation that comes after. But it’s bullshit. Deep down you know the little things like that are just pure, steaming, heaped in piles of sweaty smelly dirty bullshit. Hiding in the corner under the tradition table. And most of us have been living on that table for so long, we can’t even smell the shit anymore.

selfish.

So, after reading John Greens books, I became overwhelmed with highschool lovestory ideas of my own, but try as I might, could not get started. Over and over again I wrote the first chapter, realizing every female character I tried to make into the protagonist, turned into some slightly more appealing version of myself. And so.. I've decided to do the unthinkable, and write from the perspective of a guy - very much like John Green has done - who is falling for the version of myself I choose to write. So far, it has impressed me much more then my first efforts, and while I'm only on chapter two, and the devil only knows it all still needs a lot of work, I figured Id post the first little paragraph anyways. I have no working title, so bare with me, and jump right in.

"The flick of my adolescent life’s very first domino happened in ninth grade when my historically crumbling high school decided locker partners would be the simplest way to deal with the sudden surge in student enrollment. Assigned locker partners. “Shoji…you’re with Lindsey,” my teacher called out as I summoned a rare moment of bravery and allowed myself one fleeting glance. The gorgeous creature that was Lindsey Swan swirled out of her chair and, although I had every intention of playing it cool, this particular girl had perfected the art of inherent seduction. I stared helplessly as she swung her perfect legs to one side of the desk, threw me a polite smile and in one majestic movement, swept up and plucked a lock from the cardboard box near the door. I was busy thanking God for both springtime and miniskirts when I realized she was looking at me. Oh yeah… Shoji Katō. That was me. I paused for another moment to curse my overly proud Japanese father for not giving me a normal name, stumbled awkwardly out of my chair and then out the door. In the thirteen steps it took me to reach the locker, I ripped apart my brain trying to plan the perfect thing to say."

If it helps, Lindsay Swann is NOT who he falls in love with. Stay tuned, I may just be prompted to divulge more as it comes along.

a nightmare.

I have a reoccurring dream that pops up every so often. It came to me again last night. One of the first nightmares I can remember having as a little girl, and it’s always exactly the same. Nothing changes. Not even the clothes I’m wearing, or the time of day or my reaction when I wake up. I’m 8 years old in my dream, or at least I look around that age, and I’m watching myself. I’m in my old log cabin in northern Canada, and I’m watching myself... frozen. A little blonde girl stuck in a moment that everyone else around her isn’t trapped in. I watch myself watch my little sister as she crawls into my wood burning fireplace, and I don’t stop her. I scream at myself, I wonder why I’m not moving. I try to reach out and save my little sister from the flames, but nothing happens. My beloved childhood dog appears after a few minutes, growling at me, and jumps in the fire to save my sister. She gets out, seemingly unhurt, but my dog never returns, and I watch myself cry. One tear runs down my cheek, and I watch myself watch it drop to the ground. Then with one barely audible little splash, I wake up. It’s always the same, and no matter how many books I read, documentary's I pour over, again and again, or how completely obsessed I am with manipulating my own dream-states... I cannot get myself to move.

nightclub narcissism

I hate nightclubs. I fuckin hate nightclubs.It’s such a petty, useless way to spend time. People will take three hours trying to turn themselves into bitchdick magnets, preen up like peacocks to go dance in a giant circle hoping to attract a mate, however hopeless they truly are. So they go, they drink, they dance, they sit, they drink more, they dance more… then they go home. With or without a potential sex toy. Maybe or maybe not picked up right there in that very bar. Fuck. What are the standards? “Oh well, He’s hot!” says Malibu Barbie while standing in a black room, in a black dress, with black lights, seizure inducing strobe globes and laser shows, all of which could, in some humble opinions, be considered fucking obstructions to the unbelievably tipped scale of hot. Oh… did I forget to mention the fully formed beer goggles? Do I even need to? Fuck. “He is SO funny!” (Insert high pitched giggle here) she says while laughing at something he yelled in her ear that slightly resembled the pitch of a punch line, although the excruciating, repetitive beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat of the deafening techno music drowns out any chance for real conversation. That’s okay for her though, she hates having to think.Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I can’t seem to write anything else. The whole concept makes me want to smash things. And by things I mean people. Don’t even fool yourself by saying you only go for the dancing… but know full well you can dance whenever the fuck you want, wherever the fuck you want, as long as you have music and space. So park your car, invite some friends, blast your stereo, and fuckin dance! Dance with people you care about, dance in trashy pubs with hoe down music, dance in the street, dance in your dreams, dance on your bed… but for the love of all things sincere and genuinely validated…

DON’T BE SEDUCED BY THE CLUBS.

They are just nests of hormone driven bad judgment. The meeting place for the meaningless to thrive. The excuse to do something, or someone, and concede to a level of bullshit that no-one with any substance at all would ever do if they really thought about it.

uncrossed lines.

I tried to upload a half naked picture, with a well placed black CENSORED bar on it, onto Dailybooth a few minutes ago, (with the intended purpose of... showing off my wicked, equally well places tattoos) and so cleverly titled "Crossing the line." Then I deleted it. Within a few minutes. I'm such a chicken.

fuck it.

Fuck what's acceptable by any of your standards. I'm diving in, writhing forward, bouncing around and screaming inside. I can't stop the dirty dirty thoughts. They're everywhere, in everything I touch or smell or hear. I'm like that 7 year old girl in the back of the second grade classroom drawing penises all day. THIS is unacceptable. And no, it's not that I'm picky. I just have a very cleverly designed selection process. I want what I want... and when I want it enough, I’ll do anything I can to get it, and keep it. Yeah yeah, whatever. Sounds like a suitable mantra, but it’s all bullshit. It's getting to the "enough" stage that has provided you with this (doomed to be regretted) admission of pure, seething, splintering sexual frustration. Porn becomes habit. The necessary motions in your empty bed sizzle and die as fast as they started, and it all begins and ends in the exact same way. It’s so infuriating… and so exciting, to be so arrogantly captivated by my own immoral code. To wait, until enough is “enough” and I unleash all this pent up fury on some unsuspecting stranger.

The Crew Letter*

*Edited for your pleasure.
So some loyal crew members of Michael Bay bitched about Megan Fox and I posted the long, childish message here, deciding to take it down and write my own version instead.
Dear Megan Fox,
It must be nice, to be you. I bet some of your wildest dreams have just been handed to you lately. Fame, riches, power. Hollywood's next Angelina Jolie. A sex icon around the world. A fantasy to millions. And now, a bitch with an ungrateful, unprofessional reputation. It's one thing to be honest, and another to be stupid. I bet Michael Bay has friends, and I bet you knew that before you decided that comparing him to Hitler on record would be a damn good idea. It's your own future your fucking with, not his. There are millions of beautiful girls in the world and the movie industry doesn't waste time recycling out the bad ones.Be a bitch if that's who you are, but at least be good at it, and know when being a bitch, is just code for fucking yourself over.
Love,
Heather Maria


Actually, while I'm at it...
Dear Olivia Wilde,
I'd take you over Megan any day, any time, any where.
All my love,
Heather Maria

lost and found.

We all exist completely in the world we’ve created for ourselves. The simple ability to comprehend who we are, and grasp at the strings of our own consciousness, has forever crippled our ability to be completely unbiased. It is impossible to be sincerely objective. Everything that we do, or say, or think is a product of what we have experienced. Even what would be considered typically objective decision making, rests entirely on your definition of the word. We all take the time to analyze our own truth, finding relevance when the right buttons are pushed, finding meaning when the clock strikes midnight, finding what you want to find, even when it’s not what you thought you were looking for.

be offensive. be inappropriate. be vulgar.

My blog has been officially fucked. She is a spam virgin no more and has lost her sweet sweet e-cherry pie. As it turns out, she also happens to have released a dirty whore from somewhere deep down inside herself. She got fucked again, and again, and again. Someone opened up a whole box of spam and dished it out from all angles. And someone did it all with unbelievable persistence. And someone did it all in Japanese. Someone who I am guessing is named...熟女サークル. I'm a curious little kitty, and enlisted the help of Daichen who has confirmed it is indeed useless to me, and posted only with the hope of recruiting prostitutes. So... I'm sitting here thinking there must be a hidden meaning somewhere. Maybe this is my calling. To have Asian men pay me loads of cash for sex. Or Asian women. Are there muff munching hookers? I bet in Japan there is. Japan has everything, including some porn I would very much like to have seared out of my brain. Girl on girl prostitution needs to be explored further.... deeper. Instead of condoms, you bring dildos. It's perfect. Vulgarity breeds creativity. So "stay creative." And sub to krumbine because he gets off on it, and that's his line. Check out this post to see the overload of japanaction.

PAPER TOWNS by john green

I must admit, I have a new found deep rooted respect for vlogbrother John Green and his female protagonist in this book. Margo Roth. Even her first and middle name sound dangerous, mysterious, dramatic. And she is most definitely all those things. The girl that turns everyone into a yes man. Undeniable and unabashed, she is endearing and imperfect in a perfect way. I'm a little bit in love with Ben and his honeybunny addiction, as well as Radars hacking abilities. The journey started to drag out at some point along the way though. While I like anticipation as much as the next person, it was lacking side plot for the last few chapters. I suppose that's just an inner validation when the truth is I just wanted to see more of Margo. I wanted her to show up in the middle of his adventure and help him solve the mystery, or lead him to a new, even more exciting mystery that they could solve together. Of course that would never work. The whole point of Margo was that she needed to run off and get away from all the triviality that bored her existence into a little rabbit hole. She needed to dig and keep digging, far from the paper town and paper people she had come to resent. Maybe it's because I associated myself so strongly with her that I became so tired of Quentin's journey. I resolved myself halfway through that even if he did find her and she wasn't dead, I knew there would be no happily ever after. That wasn't Margo. And so I was doomed to feel a little put off and couldn't enjoy the end of this book. I liked it. I really liked it even - but 3 stars is all I have to offer. 5 for Margo, minus 2 because of all the pages she wasn't there.

Someone told me once that God had blessed me with these boobs... and I said,
"No. That's the devil's work."

they're SUPPOSED to bounce like that!

Fake tits ruin the grading curve for the rest of us embracing what we got. God damn beauty magazines and plastic surgeons fucking shit up all over the place. "78% of all chicks that have fake tits involved in boating accidents do not drown." - Poolhall Junkies (2002) Click HERE to test your boob knowledge of real vs fake. I got 90%. I enjoy this post coming right after the oh so serious one.

sheepnip.

I bought a bible a few months ago. A simple black covered bible that I probably could have just as easily stolen from a hotel room, and with it, an equally unadorned copy “Of the Imitation of Christ.” It came as a set and until today I had set the latter aside, knowing the New Testament would be a great wall to climb in itself. I have had a few steps up that wall but I certainly don’t imagine I’ll be arriving on the other side anytime soon. The bible is not one of those books you can ever “finish” reading. Every story can be read hundreds, if not thousands of times and interpreted very differently. As with any book that challenges perception of yourself, or your world. I’ve read chapters of Carlos Castenada’s Journey to Ixtland over and over again, and walked away feeling like I still understood very little. The bible can do that to me too, although as much as I try to read without prejudice, I see each page, each word, and with it an endless pool of injustice, and tyranny carried out in the name of those same words. How many people before me have read these sentences, and interpreted them to suit their own meaningless purpose? How many have done evil things in proclamation of the Lord, spewing power from the pages of a book and the impressionable minds of the common people, seeking answers when there weren’t any, aching for something to believe in. Something to explain the unexplainable. If only we hadn’t been so quick to diminish and trivialize the very meaning of faith. Had we been a little more careful with those words, a little more open to those who were different, a little less power starved and a little less greedy. A pack of wolves working together, or an ant colony with a co-ordinated system of seeming chaos. Instead, a few shepherds got together and said perfect! This is what we need. A tool for obedience. A tool for deep loyalty. A tool that very much resembled sheep food, or perhaps sheepnip. And those shepherds laughed themselves rich and fat and drunk, while the rest of the world struggled with the us/them attitude force-fed into their beliefs. God is a beautiful thing to believe in. It is man, and man made traditions and firmly held personal prejudices, and motivation behind the church, and every connotation behind what man will say, or do, or even think "in the name of the Lord" that we need to start questioning a little more.
A lot more.

Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ.
St. Paul
Colossians 2:8

Jesus never said "I'm a Christian." Buddha never said "I'm a Buddhist." Muhammad never said, "I'm a Muslim." People came along later to write stories and categorized them. Maybe hoping to unite those who believed in the same God or God's, but in doing so, infinitely dividing them forever. Is it fair to call yourself a "community" with pride, if what you are doing is simply excluding those who are different? I dream that one day, going to church will be simply a location, with people of all religions, gathering to think, or pray to whoever they choose. Whenever they feel the need. To talk and learn amongst each other. To respect the beliefs of others, without feeling insecure or habitual about their own faith. To say with conviction that you love God, or Allah, or no-one in particular, but do so without disregarding that the rest of the world... is not you. Outspoken atheists bother me for this very reason. You don't have to believe in a God of any kind, that's your prerogative, but you cannot hope to disprove his existence for others. Atheists involve themselves in debates and discussions with only the purpose of demeaning the beliefs of others. Not supporting their own. Because there is no belief to support. There is a non belief. A negative within the very definition. The doctrine or belief that there is NO God. Or DISbelief in the existence of a supreme being or beings. If you dont believe in even the possibility of a God, then what else could you be trying to accomplish by arguing with those who do? It is just as wrong to push your lack of faith onto others, as it is for them to push their excess of faith onto you. I dream of a world that may never be able to exist, but still, if I can dream of it, perhaps others can too.

flight of the spirit.

Many, many years ago, before Civilization had a word associated with it, a man looked at the sky overcome with jealousy as the birds drifted above. Flying and singing, flapping their wings, going up, coming down, swirling around. And the man started to flap his arms as if they were wings of his own. The day passed, and afternoon with it. The night came and his arms were too tired to lift anymore. The next day, he repeated the ridiculous tast, and he did this for several days until he could not bare the pain any longer, both psychically and mentally. He sat there for a moment, crying. Soaked in desolation and frustration, thinking: ”How is possible for others to play in the eternity of that endless sky while I am trapped to walk or crawl forever?" A few days past and the man’s arms nor spirits were getting any better, and so he journeyed to the home of the oldest man of the region. When he reached him, and explained his ailments, the old man simply smiled as he looked on helplessly and said, ‘I want to be able to fly but my arms do not know how. All I feel now is pain, because I tried for days and nights but it did not happen. I did not rise at all. My arms seem like old branches pointing to the ground. But my dream was set on the sky. What can I do?” And the wise man said “come and sit with me here, outside in the sun. Let’s see how those birds play. Give your arms some rest and I will teach you how to fly. “ The two sat in a beautiful valley, and watched as the old man spoke. “Focus on nothing and everything all at once. Open your heart to the sky, and you will feel no distance between you and those birds. The truth is young man, you are already flying.”

RANT: an oral biography

Never ever, in all my life, have I read a chapter so marvelously dedicated to used tampons and condoms. It makes me cringe with giddy embarrassment and avert my eyes from the page, just for a second, so I can convince myself... I'm an adult now. I can handle vivid descriptions of the waste products no one ever seems to talk about it. I can handle this. I can. Really. Okay... keep reading. LATER: I hit the words 'pussy plug', and my eyes do the same thing again. I can't control it. My brain just seems convinced these pages are simple too dirty and tainted and crude and ridiculously imaginative to read all at once. So instead, I’ll write this play by play of the book that makes me feel like a little innocent farm girl again… a farm girl that has picked up a Hustler for the first time. Not even a Hustler. But the anal-fetish-orgy edition of Hustler. I need a cigarette. EVEN LATER: So I'm done. I've finished the book that reads like a roller coaster on mushrooms. And acid. Pushing the boundaries... no... eliminating the boundaries between what is morally acceptable in society, and the harsh, nose wrinkling, wide eyed realities of Rant's world. I literally gasped a few hundred times along the way, always wondering what the hell one of these crazy people would talk about next. Palahnuik writes with furious humour. Or what I suppose was meant to be furiously humourous, but after all the residual shock finally wore off, I was almost too perturbed to laugh about. I can't believe I actually spelled perturbed right. 5 stars for getting into my head and making me unbelievably uncomfortable with just a few words. Minus one for the ending.

global warming LIES!

First, let’s remember for a minute here that carbon dioxide makes up .04% of the atmosphere. Yes, plants absorb it to make oxygen, humans and animals inhale that oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide, we also create carbon dioxide from industry but all that is a small portion of what could possibly have any drastic affect on the overall temperature of Earth. All that happens on land. Our planet is (so conveniently) made of 75% water, most of which contains high amounts of a rock called limestone (also present in huge mountains all over the world) which is made up of calcium (from excess deposits in the ground) and carbon dioxide (absorbed from the air). The more Co2, the more limestone, and the water acts as a buffer between the two. Volcano smoke has been emitting crazy amounts of carbon dioxide for billions of years, but because they also happen to spit up lava, which happens to cool into igneous rock, which happens to contain calcium, which happens to .. yet again, combine with the carbon in the atmosphere to make… limestone. Our planet has a system that’s been balancing itself for longer then anything you can ever conceive. Humans been around for a tiny blink of geological time, and while it might be getting warmer, it’s not a disaster and it’s happening very very VERY VERY slowly. I know why it’s being pushed so hard by the media, and so I don’t give a shit if you’re already brainwashed into disagreeing. They’re trying to scare the public into doing the right thing. I suppose it’s working, and might even be necessary, but trust me, your kids, and grandkids, and grandkids grandkids are all safe from the over publicized, warped, twisted, media created death sentence that is global warming doom. I feel like the oil market must have something to do with it. Maybe so they charge people twice now. Once to buy it, and again to burn it. I don't have all the answers, and am not pretending to, but I know enough to confidently proclaim that global warming is not a serious immediate threat. This is just the beginning to how arrogant I am about this subject.

*Additions: 99.999999% of ALL the carbon in the world, comes from limestone. The scientific equation is this: caco3 (limestone)+ 1/2 h20 (water) is equal to ca+(calcium) Hco3 +- 1/2o2 (oxygen)
then when it meets the surface of the air, Hco3 +-1/2o2 becomes equal to Co2 + h2o (carbon dixoide, plus water) or the other way around. - The more c02 in the air, the more Hco3 in the water, the more Caco3. co2 levels are kept in DIRECT balance by the solubility equation of limestone. Argue THAT motherfuckers.

human hybrids

Did you know that the human body contains ten times more bacteria cells then human cells? Without which we would have serious problems making vitamins, breaking down garbage foods, and even maintaining our atmosphere and oxygen levels. Technically, we're more bacteria then we are human. Scary thought.

backwards validation

I’ve just finished reading Em’s Messiah post for the third time. The first two times I couldn’t find any common ground at all because I refused to admit that I needed validation of any kind from my relationships. Something made me keep coming back to read it again and this time around… I felt as though the words had been written for me. They were the exact same words I had read twice before but meant something entirely different. I need validation as much as the next person; it’s just not the same needy type that Em endures. I need reassurance that I can be free. That whoever I’m with will still be there for me, even if I am not around for a while. I need reassurance that if the romance ends, it doesn’t mean the person is out of my life entirely. There was this guy, and we’ll call him… Shawn, who is a perfect example of how I tend to ruin most potential relationships before they begin. From the first day we met he made it clear that he wanted something more then friendship and I resisted week after week, until finally we openly discussed it one day. I told him it just wasn’t the right time and I didn’t think it was a good idea. All the standard lines that offer a glimmer of hope. He seemed to accept it... until one night, we were at the same party and I spent most of the time chatting with one of his friends. One of his male friends. We were in full view of everyone else the whole time but we got really into the discussion and sort of ignored the people around us. Our talk seemed to really piss Shawn off and made him excessively hostile. Naturally (and immediately) I turned on my poisonous combination of aggressive defense. He had no right to be upset. I had done nothing but talk and had already made it perfectly clear that we weren’t going to be together. Even if what I was doing was not so undeniably innocent, we weren’t a couple, and he knew that. He wasn’t allowed to dictate what I chose to do with my time. Of course... he wasn’t trying to do that at all, he was just upset to see the time he had thought was spent with the girl he liked had been taken away. And so he used anger to cover what was probably disappointment.

Here’s the kicker though. I liked Shawn. Sometimes I wanted something more, but most times, I convinced myself that if it didn’t work out, then we’d both be left with nothing. I didn’t want to lose him as part of my life, but even more… I didn’t want to be the girl that he just wanted to kiss, I wanted to be the girl he wanted to get to know… even if it meant there was never going to be any kissing. I wanted him to see me for me, not as a potential girlfriend, but as someone he cared about even if he never got to take me on dates, or hold my hand, or bring me to meet his parents. After the party, I felt guilty, and I HATE feeling guilty, so I gave him an ultimatum. Maybe it wasn’t even an ultimatum; maybe it was a demand. Either way it was unfair... but I sincerely thought it would end a lot different then it did. I told him if we were going to spend any time together at all, he couldn’t let little things like that get to him, he couldn’t lash out and he couldn’t blame me. It was all or nothing. Take it or leave it. Deal or no deal. So… he chose to never come around at all, and that was the end. I never saw him again after that day and he’s moved away now. I was naïve to think he wouldn’t walk away. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be around someone you really like, trying to act nonchalant, when all you feel is rejected. I was already too far gone on my one track highway to loneliness and saw it as the last breaking point. We had never even been together and already he chose a life without me, opposed to a life with me as just a friend. It’s a twisted logic I know, but I’m going to fall back on the easy ol’ excuse of... that’s just who I am. I don’t fall for guys easily (or at least, I never used to) because I get scared. So scared that instead of falling back to the normal girl response and throwing myself at the man I like, trying to spend every waking minute with him, needing constant attention and phone calls and text messages, I do the exact opposite. I run away to make sure I can handle my life on my own, without him. And I suppose, testing that he can handle a life of his own as well. I need validation. I need reassurance; I just need it in the opposite way of most girls… most of the time. When I really think about it… now might be a good time to get over this extreme need for freedom and just… go with the flow. Take everyday as it comes and be willing to put myself out there without seven or eight thick cement reinforced barriers around my heart.

Walls don’t just keep the bad out, they keep the good out too.

agnostic reasoning

I’ve read a few articles recently spouting off bullshit reasons to believe in God which have all had the opposite desired affect and this particular one REALLY bothered me. “Our planet Earth is so perfect, God MUST have created it for us.” Wow. I have grossly misinterpreted my Earth Studies classes, and my Dad must be a fake geologist… for we were both under the impression that this planet had been around for billions of years before we humans ever showed up. Weren’t there even these giant lizard things that roamed around for a while? Seriously!? The ability to twist logic to suit a specific purpose is a talent the religion pushers of the world have mastered to the highest degree. Earth was not made for us… we were made for Earth. Not by God, but by pure necessity. Our planet doesn’t have oxygen because we need it to live…we breathe oxygen because our planet had a bunch of it before we got here.

draw. an alien.

I had an awesome teacher my last year of highschool. He was that older man type of sexy eternal bachelor, had a crazy beard, rode a Harley in the summer, picked on kids in his own non-offensive way, would completely switch gears halfway through a lecture based on a question or comment from a student and was continually testing us with these random little psychological experiments. He handed out blank pieces of paper one day and said, “Draw a picture of an imaginary alien. I’m grading you on it. There are no requirements except the one I already told you. Draw. An alien. You have ten minutes.” Then he sat down at his desk and pulled out a Sudoku book. My best friend Lauren was in the class with me and we used this convenient time to chat as she was scribbling some lion-like creature with a red pen. I completely forgot about the assignment and when the teacher got up and started collecting the papers off desks (whether the student was done or not) I panicked a little. Shit. It’s been ten minutes already? I got one full circle penciled in before he ripped it out from under me. He brought them all to the front of class, shuffled through each one and called out names followed by “Ten out of ten.” Every name got a ten and I completely relaxed for a minute. Thank god it was just another one of those stupid assignments. Then… suddenly he called out, “Nick… what the hell is this?” He turned the paper around to us. It was blank except the tiny name scribbled in the corner and Nick, who sat beside me, replied, “My aliens invisible,” with a cocky smile. I have a feeling he was trying to impress someone and it could have been Lindsay, who sat on the other side of him, or maybe just the teacher… but it certainly didn’t work. “Oh… I’m sorry Nick, maybe you didn’t understand the requirements. I said DRAW and alien. So I’m going to ask you one more time. What. The hell. Is this?” The class was silent. Nick looked like he might just throw up… and Lindsay, along with the teacher and the entire class was staring at him. I gave a small sigh of relief, thinking how great it was that at least I drew SOMETHING, glanced from the blank paper back to Nick… and brilliance struck me. I leaned over and whispered to Nick for a minute, who looked back at the teacher with a smile... much less cocky this time and said,“It’s an alien that looks like the letters N-I-C-K.” The teacher smiled at us both and said, “Ten out of ten.” Lindsay smiled at Nick, Nick smiled back and we all lived happily ever after.

drugs & pizza

Boston Pizza Penticton was both the stage and meeting place for a whole new group of anarchist druggies that enticed me over to the same kind of life. Perhaps I enticed myself as well, but I couldn’t have done it without them. We would smoke joints outside in the back parking lot and our boss caught us once. He hauled the whole stoner gang into his office all at once and I remember being so nervous… and then laughing my ass off after when all he told us was “If you’re going to be smoking pot, just step off the property so I can’t be charged.” Talk about giving unworthy permissions to be high at work. We pushed the limits by popping ecstasy 30 minutes before close with the supervisors. Sometimes for weeks in a row. The clean up always took half the usual time and was done to perfection, so I suppose even if anyone with veto power had suspected anything, they didn’t care as long as we weren’t dealing with customers and the job was being done. Nothing quite like a team of e-tards working for you behind the scenes. After repeatedly defying the hairnet rule, the manager decided I could wear a baseball cap instead… and so I threw on a black one backwards and relished in my glory. The servers loved me because I wasn’t a bitch to them when I worked the front line and was faster then most. They brought me smoothies made with vodka without telling anyone they were alcoholic. (I was underage). I worked almost everyday trying to pay for my excessive lifestyle and made almost as much money as I could waste. In the end the drugs got the best of me and when Jason (my best friend, co-worker and the only thing keeping me together) told me he was moving back to his hometown... I completely broke down and screamed at him in the middle of my street and slammed the door in his face while he tried to explain. I didn’t leave my house for a few days and when I finally decided to try and go back to work, it wasn’t the same… I couldn’t be there without him and just didn’t show up when I didn’t feel like it. So they fired me, and I moved on.

ice-cream cult

Oh the innocence of a young, fresh-off-the-farm girl moving to Penticton, BC and becoming entrapped and awestruck by the local ice cream heaven. It was only two blocks from my house, although since we lived at 324 Penticton Avenue, there were a lot of things only two blocks from my house. My mom didn’t have a lot of money for us to spend on “things” and so I got a job. And I’m not saying that as though it was easy. Ohhhh no. The Penticton Dairy Queen family is a cult-like organization. Owned by the same woman who runs the local theatre club and dance hall and even the I-cant-believe-this-tradition-still-exists Miss Penticton Pageant. I printed out a resume embellished as hell and came back over and over again. I flirted with the cute boy behind the grill (and by flirted I mean awkwardly tried to get his attention while waiting for my fries or repeatedly wandering back to the counter to ask for extra liners, or forks, or gravy). I finally arrived one day when the owner was there and she gave me a chance based on sheer persistence. As it turns out, the DQ family was a cult I turned out to love. I had a crush on Marty the grill guy for years and perfected the art of a chocolate dipped cone. I had a strawberry milkshake thrown on me by a withered old woman paying by debit card who was furiously enraged at the 25-cent charge. I resisted the overwhelming urge to throw quarters at her. My first boyfriend lived almost exactly in between my house and the Dairy Queen. Our first fight was when he got drunk and forgot to come walk me home. My shift ended at midnight… which in the mind of a newly urbanized 15 year-old girl, is the perfect time for drug pushers and axe murderers to lurk around fast food parking lots. I still maintain the anger was justified. After closing we would set up a stereo next to the PA system and blast ABBA or NOFX or Jack Johnson. I hid behind the dumpster to scare Robin one night and made her cry. Not the most considerate thing to do I’ll admit, but she laughed about it once she realized I was neither a drug pusher nor an axe murderer. I became frustrated with ignorant demanding customers easily and learned the grill too so I could escape once in a while. All in all... I’d say Dairy Queen was the perfect first job for me, and I loved it even when I hated it.

desultory fish princess

Ten points if you know what the title adjective means. It was my dictionary.com word of the day, and I've decided to become briefly attached to it, then quickly move on to something completely unrelated… for no reason really, except my own wanderlust tendencies. I was six years old and I still remember exactly what I was wearing on my first day of school. My best sweater, the yellow one with long sleeves I could pull over my hands, the shiny silver flower clip in my hair, my brand new “inside shoes” were white with black stripes on the Velcro. I looked like every other normal six year old stepping into the classroom for the first time… except of course I wasn’t anything like any of the other six year olds. I was me. Little Miss Mischievous hidden behind the golden face of pure Canadian country life innocence. If you’ve ever read Little House in the Big Woods, then that was me… only a generation later. We had a truck. We had a satellite phone that could be hooked up to a battery for emergencies, we had propane tanks for our stovetops and refrigerator, and a huge brick inlayed wood stove. We had a gas generator, kerosene lanterns (with proper replaceable wicks) a plethora of candles inspired by my hippie mother. We even had one small TV set we could watch movies on if we were good, or in my case, if we were simply convincing enough. I remember asking my friends to lend me the movies I thought my parents would like just so I could have a suitable bargaining tool. I may have been six years old, and I may have looked exactly the way I was supposed to look, but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to experience that first day of school. I shuffled through the doors and stood awestruck, staring at the majestic, glorious and magnificent setting for millions of little girl dreams all over the world. There was a castle built in my first grade classroom. Okay… so it was made of foam and cardboard, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t take my eyes away. I could barely think about anything else as I took my seat and everything around me melted away. I cared only about that castle and the all-consuming need to have my princess wish materialize right there in front of me. I think I remember it so clearly because I was the true opposite of a princess. I shot squirrels with pellet guns for fun, could gut and clean a fish fast enough that I considered it a talent, ran barefoot all summer and laughed while killing ants with a magnifying glass. The pink pointy hat with the ribbon flowing down, sitting visibly right there in the castle, represented everything that I wasn’t… everything I had seen in those Disney movies I borrowed… everything that I wanted. I was Cinderella, and that castle was my chance to find and lose an imaginary glass slipper. I finally snapped out of it and listened to my teacher for a while, focusing intently only when she explained the rules of playtime. There were stations. PAINTING, PUZZLES, LEGO … and oh yes… CASTLE. I’m sure there was more that I cant remember now, but we each had little gingerbread people cutouts with our names on them. To choose a station we just hooked them on one of the pegs below each name. The castle had five pegs and before I even knew what was happening, they were all filled. One little girl stomped away to sulk in a corner; another simply hung her cutout man over another cutout man and screamed when the teacher said she couldn’t do that. I watched. I watched my dreams fade away from me as I realized, they weren’t my dreams at all. They were everyone’s dreams. In an instant, I no longer loved that castle. In fact, I didn’t even care about it one little bit. I put my gingerbread man named Heather on the PUZZLE peg, because it only had two hooks, and no one else wanted it. For days I just smiled as everyone else -even the boys (for there were also foam swords in the castle) - fought over those five pegs. Eventually the excitement dwindled and I decided to try the castle. As I expected, it was a disappointment. I wasn’t a princess and no pink hat or makeshift towers could change that....

.....besides, the castles I created in my head were so much better… and they were all mine.

(COSART) 3 = fear of GOD

‘Tis a distorted concept in my agnostized mind, this distress over a supreme being I’m not quite sure exists at all. It is written in Proverbs 1: 7 that “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge,” and I feel like I am being torn through two sides of the same fence. I am arguing with myself, half trying to justify that perhaps, fearing God is not the same as being afraid of God. Perhaps a bit of apprehension is necessary to show deep respect and create a humbling reverence for His majestic authority. Almost similar to the fear you have of your boss, although on a much smaller scale, for your boss only signs your paycheck, while Jesus is not only responsible for every great and glorious thing in this world, He’s also the one true judge of sin and it is He who creates, destroys, rewards and punishes those as He deems fit. No one deserves that much power, but if He has acquired it nonetheless, then hell yeah I’m fearful. Compared to God, I am an unclean, morally questionable, cloaked in sin, anarchist disaster, and if it is He who will stand and deliver judgment on me at the end of the day, I have every reason to believe I would be cast away in shame and disgust, and so, begins my journey to the other half of the fence, the slightly taller side in this case, which is telling me I try too hard to satisfy the reasoning behind twisted notions like this one. Proverbs 22:4 writes “the reward of humility and the fear of the Lord are riches, honor and life.” There are so many things wrong with that sentence, not the least of which has riches listed first on the reward scale for humility. Does this mean that the lower my self confidence, the more apprehensive and sobering my thoughts become when centered on God, the more money I will make? It is not honorable to be weak, or submissive… and life cannot be used as a prize for obedience to Christian values. My life is mine, and even if it is He who gave it to me, it does not remain the property of God to withhold if He believes I do not fear Him quite enough. Proverbs 10:27 says “the fear of the Lord prolongs life.” Now there’s a sell point if I ever saw one. Fear me, fear my wrath, fear my judgement, be spineless, be manipulated, be meek and humble… and I shall bless you with longer life! Poof, you just got ten more years! I’m sorry Tripp, but from this side of the fence, that sounds like total bullshit. If he has the power to lengthen life expectancy, then we can infer that he also has the power to look down at others and say… you, oh confident one, shall DIE tomorrow for not trembling in church every Sunday. God is a contradiction within a paradox. In my imagination, He’s sitting there on a morally pure pedestal, turning his nose up at the lesser creatures He created yelling…
“I love you… Now fear me! I am everything and you are nothing!” If He made us, then He knows our limitations, He knows our strengths and our weaknesses, and He consciously instilled us with the ability to disbelieve in Him, yet when we do, He says we are unworthy, He says we are wrong, we are sinful, we are evil and ungodly, we deserve to be punished, we will not be granted access to the realms of heaven. It seems like every Christian success is so easily transferred over as a success of God, but every failure, every person tortured or murdered or sacrificed in the name of the Lord, is simply human error. How unbelievably convenient. I am getting off track, and more frustrated with every word. So much in fact, that I have no way to balance the bias of this entry, and no way to close with a cohesive argument, so instead, Ill just say… God, if you’re listening… you created humans in your image, yet you are fully pure, while we are imperfect, we are flawed, we are capable of both great and horrible things – but you cannot pick and choose which ones you take responsibility for. If you are to be the almighty power in the world, then it must be the entire world, in all its horror and glory. You must accept that there will be those who do not fear you, and will never fear you, for reasons of their own, but it does not make them less important or less knowledgeable then those that do. I am an imperfect person, and if you are not, then you must already understand that I cannot be anyone else then who I am, I can not believe in you simply because others tell me it is right. I cannot bow my head and kiss your feet because it is written in an ancient story book that I should do so. I cannot fear that which I do not understand.

STIB #3: above and below

This time, my Song Title Inspired Blog comes from ‘Above and Below’ by The Bravery. For some reason unknown to me at this moment, I immediately thought of the internal struggle to answer the all-impending question of doom. Who am I? Is more of myself shown above the surface, within the things others can see or hear, the things I do, the places I go, the people I meet? I don’t think so. I think that’s just the tip of the iceberg. More of who I am is beyond what the outside world can touch. It is my world. Full of my thoughts, hopes, dreams, secrets, desires and imagination. Every so often, a little bit of the iceberg creeps up above the waterline and is visible to those around me. Sometimes it only stays for a minute, bobbing awkwardly. Sometimes it is slammed down further then where it started, never to creep back up again. But sometimes... the times that matter the most, is when the really good pieces emerge from way down below, and stay above forever. When whatever little bit I choose to show, is finally what the world actually sees.

character test.

Imagine you find yourself at a late night ATM, skateboard in hand, waiting for a friend to withdraw money to buy the next half ounce so you and the four people outside can have weed to smoke when you all take mushrooms the next morning. No-one else is around except your little gang and you’re only inside to try and warm up for a minute, but while he’s on one machine you glance at the other. The screen is blinking. WOULD YOU LIKE ANOTHER TRANSACTION? You don't say anything and click YES before you even know what you’re doing. It’s not illegal to push a few buttons right? So naturally, because you’re a badass, you check the AVAILABLE FOR WITHDRAW and boom. The screen lights up along with your eyes.

1500.00$

Holy shit. Holy shit! This kind of thing just doesn’t happen.

What do you do?

(I’ll tell you what I did AFTER you answer me)

UPDATED*

I looked over at my friends outside, looked at the screen again and withdrew 60 dollars, so if added to the 20dollars I already had, we could buy a whole ounce instead of a quarter ounce. I figured I was only repaying the karma for whoever was stupid enough to leave their card in the machine and decided if they had 1500 dollars available for withdraw at any time, they might just be thankful enough I didn’t take more and never notify anyone. I also took the card out and placed it beside the machine, so no one else could come along with the same questionable moral conscious. I never told anyone what happened, and instead proclaimed I had withdrawn the money from my own account and still to this day, nothing ever came of it. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do and the consequences are still waiting to seek me out and destroy - but I can’t change what I did and at the time I believed it was justified, so I don’t regret it, but I wouldn’t do it again.

dear david v...

You are an asshole. I don’t put up with assholes on my blog, or in my blog comments, so yes, I deleted your worthless criticism (twice now, and will continue to do so happily). Not because I care what you think of me, but because your opinion on how I look doesn’t belong here, and I don’t need to be reminded of one strangers bitter and resentful judgment. You emailed me and messaged me a few times and I never showed you the time of day, so you took it personally and are now trying to validate your bruised ego by attacking me. You don’t want to be here, and I don’t want you here, so do us both a favour, take a hint, and fuck off.

date me?

I got asked out on a date today. A perfectly nice, seemingly filthy rich man approached me at the Canadian embassy to report he was in town just for a few days on business from Singapore and was staying at the Shangri La hotel, which might just be the most expensive hotel possible in this city. He was dressed in a suit, carried a black briefcase that I'm sure was carrying some life changing documents with his name on them and shoes that probably cost more then my entire wardrobe. He looked richer then my Dad. Way richer, and younger, and very good looking. We made forced small talk as I waited for a taxi and tried over and over again to deny his proposal. Our conversation went something like this...
"Would you like to get a drink with me later"
"I don't drink."
"Well how about coffee then?"
To which I raise my eyebrows and gesture to the coffee cup in my hand.
"Dinner?"
"Sorry - I have plans tonight." (I dont)
"Tomorrow then."
And continued in this fashion for about ten minutes (where are all those damn taxis when you need them?). I could tell this particular man was not used to hearing 'no' so many times.... and truth be told, I'm not sure why I was so quick to refuse. He made me nervously bitchy... and in all my jeans and t-shirt glory I felt very out of place suddenly. I gave him my phone number before I left to tide him over and on the way home was contemplating why it seemed so damn scary to accept a date with that particular man. He obviously wasnt looking for a girlfriend since he didnt live here, wasnt looking for sex because there are a ton of clubs he could go to for that, wasn't looking to party since he persued me even after I said I didn't drink... so I'm assuming he was just lonely... and wanted to invite the random friendly lady who asked him for a light of her cigarette. I suppose I was just afraid he would take me to some fancy restaurant where snails were considered food and there were eight forks on the table. More then being indimidated though, I was very... out of practice. The last time I went on a date I did not have a good time. The time before that I went as a substitute with a friend who got stood up... and the time before that... I was 16. You could definitley say I'm not a date-me kinda girl and in fact, havent the slightest idea of proper protocol. I would end up ordering pasta or something equally messy and embaressing to eat... show up in flipflops and plaid or a bright pink tshirt that says Make Love Not War.... and whoever the unlucky sophisticated man happened to be... would be trying to hide his face the whole time and get away as fast as possible. Dating is scary. I intend to avoid it as long as possible... but I do feel bad for that man today, he's probably not feeling so great about himself right now, and I most definitley did not have to be that harsh. Maybe coffee I could handle... maybe he'll call me and be all elated that I changed my mind.

dieting??

For years now, every person at some point or another seems to jump on the bandwagon of every new ridiculous diet. From Weight Watchers to Jenny Craig to Dr. Atkins there is a smorgasbord of options to choose from. Every “expert” has their very own tips, tricks, cheats, theories and advice to offer. With that being said, I must warn you I have no diet education and no motivation to learn the standards and expectations of the weight loss world…but will preach out my personal (and permanent) eating habits anyways. This is not a diet plan, despite the title of this post, it is just simply how I choose to limit what I put in my mouth. Number One: I don’t eat sugar. It is not a whole protein, lacks any and all nutrients needed for your body to metabolize it into energy, will make your skin gross and put holes in your teeth. I am not fooled by diet sodas or “sugar-free” candy. If it contains aspartame or splenda or any other artificial sweetner then I stay far far away. If something says zero calories, that means zero energy. Its quite scary actually when you think about what the fuck is really there. Your tastebuds recognize it as sugar but it goes into your body and somehow… disappears. Not healthy. Now… I must add that I cant live without icecream or Hersheys chocolate kisses, but like every vice in our world, the secret is moderation. I don’t keep anything in the house so it is not readily available, but will indulge once in a while when I go out. Number Two: I Imagine I am living 200 years ago and eat only what would have been available back in those times before we started mass producing Nestle products and “enriching” vitamin additives into everything. I eat natural whole foods, unprocessed, unfiltered, unrefined un… everything. Number Three: I look to dental anatomy for the proper ratio of food groups that humans were designed to eat. We have eight incisors (four on the top, four on the bottom) used for tearing or sheering fruit or vegetables. A couple canines for shredding meat and the rest are molars. Exactly like cow teeth used specifically for grinding grain. Carbs do not equal death. The very first human like creatures evolved eating grass seeds. Bread, crackers, rice, pasta, corn, oatmeal (all whole grain) is what makes up at least 60% of what I eat. Number Four: Water. Lots and lots and lots of water. Number Five: I combine foods in the right ways. If I'm going to binge on a big steak, I'll eat a salad with some sort of acidic dressing (most vinaigrettes work great) to help digest that huge hunk of beef that will literally rot in my stomach. Number Six: I don’t skip meals but will substitute them with smaller portions if I have to. I hate breakfast. When I’m rushing to get ready for my day throwing in time to eat can be a hassle but I’ll grab an apple or some toast or even just a few crackers. I also eat my dinner in two sittings. Most at around 6 or 7, then later if I'm still hungry I'll eat what's leftover. Number Seven: For snacks, think salty instead of sweet. I love Pringles and Doritos and Corn Chips – which might have higher fat content then a handful of jellybeans… but are in fact way better for you in terms of real nutrition. Number Eight: I don’t have a number eight but I wanted this list to end with my favourite number.

I’d like to add that I don’t exercise regularly and will go swimming often enough and walk my dog every day – but it is for pleasure not weight loss and so, looking the way I do and having maintained my very good relationship with the bathroom scale… I can whole heartedly vouch for every single thing I’ve just written. For me, that is. You may be different. Like I warned you, this is not a diet plan, just an explanation of how I eat and what I would recommend to anyone who asked.