I AM a unique little snowflake! Assholes.

The strangest sense of delight washes over me when I realize I played some small, but perhaps important role in provoking strangers around the globe to get together and throw words passionately at each other... coming to the beautiful conclusion that even when we vehemently disagree, it's okay to end it all with an "I love you."

the BLOW AND TELL

I’m sexist. Reverse sexist. And my youtube channel too. Because 92% of my subscribers have penises. Impressive. Or pathetic maybe. But if I cared enough to calculate it, I’d say 92% of my offline friends have penises too. I prefer male company. Not because of the penises themselves (okay, so not ALWAYS about the penises) but because, boys are so easy. Men tend to get a little more complicated with age, and a higher quality of selection will emerge, but I’d say all women, are at least 92 times more complicated then 92% of men. Wait, I need to clarify. Straight men. I’m not even gonna get into gay guys. Those motherfuckers have issues.
(Holy shit. You CANT call gay guys motherfuckers. Because they could just be like.. Actually… no. We don’t DO vagina.)

I’ve spent a lot of time around straight men as the “friend,” and you’re free to interpret those quotations to mean whatever you want. But…the best lesson I’ve ever learned, comes from right in here in the Philippines.

So listen up 8%.
If you find yourself in a failing relationship where you just cannot get that motherfucker to listen to anything you say, or treat you the way you want to be treated, I have the answer. You won’t like it, but I have it.

The next time you’re bitching to your man about whatever the fuck it is you bitch about, stop what your doing, make or order him some good food, get him a beer, or ten, have sex with him… and THEN, instead of bitching, tell him what you want. Don’t ask. Tell. It’s like training a dog. He will associate what you just told him, to the feeling of satisfaction, and be 92 percent more inclined to actually listen. Now, I realize many of you have the system backwards. You think the man should only get what he wants, AFTER he’s done what you want, but you see.. that’s exactly what he’s thinking too. And it’s not about giving in, it’s about winning. If we are the ones to stop the vicious cycle, we are also the ones that end up looking so damn good, the men are left trying to catch up.

Don’t you WANT to be the girlfriend a guy can brag about to his buddies?

Come on girls. Just... suck up your pride (literally) and give in to the process I forever deem, the blow and tell. 92 times more effective then bitching, since the beginning of time.

Of course it’s not all about sex, but think of it this way… all your other fantastic qualities will be recognized, appreciated and rewarded to a much more satisfying degree, if your man himself… is satisfied.

I wish you could hear,
The secrets that I keep
On sleepless nights
They don't feel right
To say out loud
Not now.

Appetite

I feel as though I am constantly at war with my own body... and because it is not a battle fought in the typical, society-approved way, I also feel... alone.

So today, I write to you, dear stranger, in strokes of hard truth.

I am not anorexic, or bulimic, but those words have been thrown at me often. Sometimes venomous, sometimes with real concern… but the intention doesn't matter anymore. It all stings the same.

I will not be making a comparison to the tormented self-esteem of those who have been ridiculed for being over-weight. The two are polar opposites, and trying to box them together only contributes to the formation of warped stereotypes.

Someone who is desperately (or even casually) trying to shed those extra pounds, will find it very difficult to ever empathize with someone like me.

I love ice-cream, cupcakes, fruit roll ups, nachos and bacon. (Oh the bacon).  I am a reclusive stoner and I never go to the gym. I never buy low fat or diet anything. I never have to look in the mirror and wonder if something makes me look fat. So, as far as the outside world is concerned, I don’t have a weight issue at all.

Except I do. I am under-weight. Not always, but most of my life I've struggled with my appetite, and the consequences are only getting more extreme as I get older.  The list of foods I don’t like is lengthy, and even as a child my mother had serious issues getting me to finish a meal.

If I don’t eat right when I am hungry, I don’t get hungry for the rest of the day.  And even if I do manage to hit the hunger-window accurately, it dissipates quickly, and I end up forcing down as many more bites as I possibly can before the opportunity is gone.

I count calories; to make sure I eat more than I burn. I step on the scale every day, fearful the numbers will read lower than the day before.  I take pills, and powders… hoping for some sort of scientific miracle. I scour articles from experts who all claim to have the answers, sometimes for hours, attempting one extreme weight-gain plan to the next. And maybe they work for some people. But not for me.

Very recently, despite new medications to balance my stomach acid, and the added bonus of living with my sister for a while (who is a nutritionist with three kids and lives in a house overflowing with healthy food)… the drop has become much more significant, and the changes happening faster than I can accommodate. Blaming circumstance is possible (I got involved in roller derby, managed to drag myself out of a destructive relationship, moved to a new city, and received a nasty flu as my arrival gift, still lingering after weeks of feeling like complete shit) but it doesn't help me to pretend this is temporary, or hide behind helplessness and convince myself there is nothing I can do.

Some people eat their stress.  I starve mine… and being aware of the issue, doesn't seem to stop it from happening.  I took all the steps they say are necessary. I established a support system, and a routine. I made mental lists of every food high in “good fat” content, and quickly erased half of it in honour of my unbelievably frustrating taste-buds and their aversion to so many common food items. Prescription drugs aren't making any noticeable difference; even the herbal remedies no longer instill the same vigorous munchies of my youth.

I miss my curves. I miss the way my boobs used to bounce around when I ran. I miss the jiggly part of my thighs… fuck, I even miss the love handles I used to wish weren't so prominent.

I wish you could see the look of pure fucking judgment I get from most people while attempting to explain this.

“Just eat.” They say, because it’s so easy for most of the world. Or “You’re skinny. You should be thankful.”  Oh right. How silly of me. I am very thankful for this protruding rib-cage and shrinking stomach. Mostly though, I just love when other people tell me how I should feel without even attempting to sympathize.

I am not sure what I hoped to accomplish in sharing this with you, but it does feel nice to end it all with sarcasm… and a faded glimmer of potential understanding.

Oh metaphor, I've missed you.

Concrete steps, half wet from the remnants of melting snow, make a nice smoking spot. Nothing too spectacular about them, or the scenery they provide. It’s Canadian suburbia, neat rows of family homes nestled in side-by-side. It seems like everyone has a minivan, and a big, loud, white truck. Not surprising for super-moms and oil rich Alberta boys (the ‘grown up’ versions).

 So I find myself on some damp steps, watching smoke swirl away through this picture of domestic paradise…and I still feel like… something is missing.

 I look to the setting sun, and laugh. Of course.

 The neighbour on my left has a rather ugly thicket of branch-like trees lining the edge of his property, and the sun sets right behind them. Through those branches, I can see my preferred version of suburbia. The one with pieces missing. Not just behind trees, but every little thing we can’t see, behind all the beautiful doors and windows. Each one covering up all the secrets, the lies, the scandals, the anger, the sex. 

And the love.

 The kindness and the patience enclosed in lace curtains. The beauty of what I already knew, vividly contrasted against the poetry of what I didn't know, and would never know. Missing pieces of my setting sun, inspired a profound image of individuality.

 I am not a box. I am a million pieces of cardboard… most of which, no one else will ever see. Even if I could write down every one of my experiences, choices, adventures, thoughts, and memories, at every point in my life… they would still be incomplete. I can’t write the smell of the river-bank flowers from my childhood home.

But I can remember.

No one, not my parents, my siblings, or even my son.. will EVER know who I really am. Their version of me, and your version of me, is missing pieces.

 It’s a setting suburban sun seen through the shadows of tree branches.

Most of my thoughts and consequently, my words... are metaphors. It’s a language of pictures, an old tune on a jukebox, the smell of a rainstorm, the taste of a memory,  the touch of your favourite lover. 

Starving.

A desolate angel quivers beside me, starving. Swallowed whole by her desire to see the truth. Addicted to the possibility of tangible love, but fated instead to suffer through an ethereal sense of enchantment. The world’s tyranny eats her dreams. Corruption of thought pollutes her compassion. Empathy bleeds through her, unsaid... and unnoticed. The advantages of apathy are overwhelming, and for her... impossible.

Wrapped in masks and shadows, I can’t see her face... but I can feel her scars. Ghosts of her past are here too, breathing new nightmares... chasing her tears further into oblivion. She can’t hide forever, but she wants to. Building self impressions can take years, but devouring them... only seconds.

 Broken mirrors reflect a broken soul, aching to be put back together. But where are all the pieces? How would she know if they fit? What if the final impression... wasn’t enough to satisfy her insatiable appetite for sincerity? Who was she? Under all the pre-text, all the disillusions and fantasies... was her reality malleable, and left to interpretation? Or does reality belong to everyone?

 What if everything tastes the same as nothing?

One day...

I have quite obviously revealed the existence of this blog to a few too many people, corrupting not only it's innocence but also it's ability to be a sufficiently anonymous outlet to say whatever the fuck I want. Moral censorship is almost inherent once you are aware of certain individuals who may (or may not) be able to read what you are writing.

 Sincerity is a dirty bitch to find, and the internet makes it near impossible. As Oscar Wilde says "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." This used to be my mask. and you, my audience. It has been fading away for a while now, even before the latest blasts.

 I write drafts I never post, save word documents of gibberish on my computer in places I'll never look again, and keep most of my words written in memories, or messages to the people I love.

 Perhaps for now, I will continue mostly in the shadows.

Time will catch up with me one day and with my inability to ignore the prying eyes glaring through these words. One day, I'll realize no one cares as much as I think they do. One day, I'll write about anything and anyone I want.

 One day, I'll have nothing to hide from.

I can forget the intangible and chase after sober dreams sometimes... but even those mere fragments of reality can always be somehow spun back into illusive fairytales.

So, here's what happened.

Inspired by hate, and total misrepresentation by an anonymous someone who obviously knows me in real life... I am here to tell the story of my last relationship. The true story, with names changed to protect the innocent. 

I first met Mr. X at a party one summer night a few years ago, outside in a field behind an old school. There was a fire, and bright little blue ecstasy pills were making their way around, as they tended to do a lot those days. I took one, as did my friends, as did Mr. X. We talked, about WAY too much. I knew his secrets, and I knew who he was. I also knew he was in a relationship, and had two kids and a fiancée waiting for him at home... a non-disputed fact which I tried not to judge him for as he worked his ass off and still found time to party with us. We shared a tent a few times, with a few other people, and absolutely nothing sexual of any nature happened between us.  I slept next to my sister and rolled my eyes at her choice of men, ranted about the universe because I was high, and slept the entire next day away. He was always gone by the time I woke up, and I only saw him a handful of times, barely gave him a second thought if I'm being honest.

Not long after, I was visited by a man we will call Mr.Ice ... and I fell madly in love. For just over thirty days my world was subject to nothing but the intensity of those moments and of my devotion to make a life with him, by whatever means necessary. I manifested my own twisted desires into actions which at the time, seemed perfectly rational. Duplicitous intentions are always discovered eventually... and so, it was over just as quickly as it started.

I tore myself apart as a person, scrutinizing every manipulative nuance of character, every self-deceptive quality... all the while, proving I learned nothing in the process by quickly dating a local. A simple, steady, trustworthy guy (also conveniently named Mr. Ice) who I didn't feel inferior to. Didn't feel the need to lie to. I was enough for him. We dated for a few months and eventually called it quits. He moved out west.

A few months later at the end of last summer, Mr X appeared around town again, staying nearby. He had just returned from visiting his relatives, and seemed... different. Happier. He came over a few times and smoked some joints, had a beer or two... again, completely platonic and innocent, always with numerous other people around. Then he told me it was over between him and his fiancée, and he had moved out.

I didn't believe him. 

It's common practice around these small town parts for couples to break up and get back together numerous times over the course of a week, or a few months. Usually for the summer so they can sleep around and then go back to their distrustful relationship for stability in the winter.

I was not about to invest any time, emotion or energy into someone who wasn't going to stick around, and so I didn't.

We started dating only after he got his own place (in the same building as I was) and truly cut off all romantic ties with his ex,. Around the exact time she also got with someone else.

Mr. X and I dated for almost a year, and then ended our relationship a few weeks ago. A decision I made and he respected. We were fighting way too often, and instead of facing our issues, we tiptoed around them, scared to offend or hurt each other.

I have already heard rumours that he cheated on me while we were together, which I don't believe, and rumours that he is getting back with Mrs. X, which wouldn't surprise me, and ultimately, doesn't concern me. He is a free man, to do what he wants, and who he wants.

So yes, I dated a man who was previously in a serious relationship for a very long time, and who had kids with another woman... but what most fail to notice, is how shitty that relationship was before anyone involved even knew I existed. I believe social law (as well as common sense) protects me from the "homewrecker" argument here.

So, dear hater, regardless of what your petty, judgemental and moronic instincts are telling you I "should" feel, I do not regret dating Mr. X, and never will.

In fact, if you want to persecute me for anything and really strike a nerve, just research and find out more about Mr. Ice (the first). There's enough shame there to bury me if you wanted to.

Good luck.

Heartless bitch,
Heather-Maria

MESSAGE TO A HATER

Just a hint to whoever left the most recent (and childishly hateful) comments here on my blog.

They would have been SO much more effective if absolutely any of your accusations had been true, or at least…  half-true.  Hell, I'd have settled for one that just MIGHT be true, or even none at all.

Go ahead and call me a dirty whore if you like, for no reason at all except that you don't like me (trust me when I say your name calling doesn't even register on my give-a-fuck scale)... but it serves NO purpose, except my amusement, to call me a dirty whore because of a fictitious situation you have decided happened a certain way. Only proves your ignorance, and complete lack of validation to even speak on the subject.

One of my worst qualities is my tendency to give way too much credit to the morons of the world. Oh I'm sorry, was that too pretentious? Oh wait… you probably don't know what that means do you?

Let me spell it out in terms you might understand. 

u need 2 get ur head out of ur ass & listen 2 more bitches like me when i say... dont b afraid 2 grow up. 

Anonymous hate is the dirtiest bitch I can imagine.

I LOVE Our worlds obsession with catasrophes, at least when it comes to the idea of a zombie apocolypse, or invasion of aliens (those subjects are a creative gold mine for entertainment). But this "global warming" ALARMISM, which always seems to crawl it's way back out of the misinformed minds of the general public, needs to finally flutter and die off with the rest of the political fear-mongering conspiracies.  

So, let me sum this up.  

1) Yes, Earth is warming up, as a natural cycle of our planet, and you better hope to hell it doesn't stop anytime soon. Not if, but WHEN it does (and starts to cool instead) you can be guarunteed another Ice Age is heading our way.  

2) Yes, the “greenhouse effect” is also real, but it is NOT a man made phenomenon created by our C02 emissions (which make up less than 1/10th of 1% of our atmosphere). This affect is also a naturally occuring event, caused by water vapour, and used to regulate temperature between night and day. Without this "deadly" practice, the average temperature of our lovely, warm 15°C planet... would instead be a bitter, and cold -18°C. 

So... as I said years ago, dont fear death by global warming, or the equally ridiculous 2012 mayan catastophe. After all, it's WAY more likely to be zombies or aliens, and it's also just WAY more interesting.

ps. For the Americans, thats an average world temp drop from 59 ºF to 0 ºF .

new meaning.

Music has transcended above every painful moment in my life. The notes were always there to melt away the walls... and the words, well they let me climb right over and escape with them. I was lifted on an adventure to anywhere but where I was. One night, over 5 years ago, I was sitting with a few friends, on a dirty mattress, in a room that had barely escaped collapse after a tapestry on the wall had caught fire the previous night (we had already decided the black streaks were burned in the likeness of angel wings). There were bongs, pipes, lungs, grinders and papers of every kind littering the makeshift shelf above us. A stained towel covered the only window. In the far corner there were a few empty spray paint canisters, the same ones used to tag every street corner, fence or stop sign with one of our graffiti names. I am a little embarrassed to admit I called myself the 420 princess, and my friends tell me there are a few spots that have not been painted over. Remnant markings of those days still remain, and today I discovered, remnant melodies as well. On that specific night, one specific song clicked on the computers media player, and we all fell victim to the meaning it sought within each of us. No-one spoke. We just listened. Today, that song struck a part of me again, and flooded my emotions with a very different meaning. I wish I could say it's a song most of you will love, but the reality is, it's probably far from any usual tastes. Instead, I'll just post the lyrics below, the words that drove me to silence that night, and tears today. Words with new meaning.

Schism
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering, fundamental differing,
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.

I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication.

The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.

There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
I've done the the math enough to know the dangers of a second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication

Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any sense of compassion

Between supposed lovers
And I know the pieces fit.

the desert.

My eyes flicker open, and the images around me fade into reality. Miles of sand stretch from one horizon to the other. It smells hot… and the drift of clouds is already dissipating overhead. A scorched sun rises through, and threatens to devour my world into infinite flames. Rushes of sweat are already trickling down my face… and I don’t know how I got here, but I know it’s not where I’m supposed to be. I have no shoes on, and what once was a dress, now hangs in black threads around me. A vulture circles overhead, smiling.

I try to stand, but my legs shake wildly and give out. So I crawl, slowly and without purpose, in no discernable direction. I will not die without a fight. Hours of dragging my knees has made them raw and with every movement, I grind more sand deep into the scrapes. Bloody handprints follow me everywhere, and I consider giving up, until the vulture calls to me. I look up with my last molecule of energy, and see him sitting carelessly by a murky puddle of water, still smiling, although not so morbid this time. He tucks his head down low, as if to beckon me forward, and I obey, slithering furiously to his side as he takes to the sky once more, and leaves me there alone.

I drink in desperate rushes, choking myself with a greedy thirst. In flickers a memory, wiping cum from my lips with the back of my hand, the same motion I use to wipe the water now. The same satisfying grin, of a potent desire fulfilled. Without warning, and almost as a direct reaction to my reminiscence, the sun burns with a new fury. I splash a few more drops across my face idly, marveling in the tactility of it all, before the torrid demons swirl in. Deep red and scorched, they turn my water to steam. Floating away in waves of heat, I sit, defeated. . I can still feel the steam, the heated weight of the air around me. The rising wisps and whispers of what was once there. I can feel it… but I cannot touch it. Cannot hold it in my hand.

I sink to the ground, and try to cry, but no tears can be made. So I begin tugging pointlessly at the ripped clothing around me, as though the simple repetitive motion could cure my death. It won't. This place will surely hold my last breath... an inescapable tomb of dust.

The vulture is back. Laughing at me as it all goes dark. At least he wont go hungry.

"green" humans.

To write: A script set in a time when Earth is so overpopulated, we can no longer grow the resources needed to feed even half the world. A crazy eco-obsessed marine biologist is recruited by a radical green peace organization who try to solve the problems by creating a crossbred symbiotic relationship between plants and humans (based on coral research) by infecting a new breed of single-celled algae under the skin of test subject X. The algae takes high doses of infa-red light and converts that energy into perfect human proteins, sugars and fats, depositing them directly into the body without any waste product or real food needed.

Help me pick a better title. Will post more plot points later (dont want to give it all away)

What is left…?

…after you find out you are meaningless to him from a distance, and the touch that could solve everything, is impossible.

My heart beats outside my body, and I can see the faded fabric of my shirt pulse forward around my chest, quickening with every shudder of breath. Crying seems useless, but then, so does everything… so I cry anyways. I know I broke him, I know he needs his own coping mechanisms and I know I can’t be a part of them anymore… but I can’t help asking him to notice… I broke me too.

I should be supportive. I should say I understand, even if I don’t and learn how to shrug it off. I should retreat to my own intangible solutions of distraction, or imagination. I should hit the temporary disconnect switch, and let him come to me on his own terms.

But he never will. We both know this.

So … I cling, desperately. I am selfish, childish even… and almost always over-react, but at least… it’s real. This constant, and paralyzing fear that his paper-thin responses and complete emotional monotony… could end up being inked in permanence forever. And the reminder on my wrist… will be known only as… the missing piece. The one I took from him, and set on fire, scattering the remains. Now the entire puzzle has been tossed in an unremarkable alley trash can somewhere, disregarded and ignored. I would search forever for those lost ashes, trying, and failing to rebuild the picture we were already making… but at some point, do I just surrender to the impending truth that… it’s never going to be whole again? If you keep reaching out to someone who never reaches back, eventually the habit dies.

I don’t know how to not want him, or not need him, no matter how much he needs me not to.

ayn rand - literary shame.

Upon delving further into the enigma that is Ayn Rand, I take back everything positive I have ever said about her, and would refer you to do some research before reading anything she has written as truth, or even half truth, and instead... leave her to lead her cult of sheep into an objectivist hoard of the proudly selfish, and laugh and point as they all consequently self-destruct. Her books are simply a dogmatic podium for Rand to infect the poison of her ideas onto the unsuspecting and ignorant world. To be read as fiction, and fiction only. Bad fiction to be exact, with zero relation to the real world, and how real people react to situations and emotions.

Great links if you doubt me:
http://www.noblesoul.com/orc/critics/personal.html
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2200085728

osama's death over hyped

"If inciting people to do that [9/11] is terrorism, and if killing those who kill our sons is terrorism, then let history be witness that we are terrorists."

Ironic words spoken by Osama Bin Laden in an Oct 2001 interview. So, when America kills thousands of innocents on foreign soil, it's called 'self-defense? Its considered heroism and patriotism... and when the rebel leader is murdered, a celebration occurs! At least Osama had the balls to admit what he was doing, and why. 9/11 was 10 fucking YEARS ago. How many more people have died since? By the hands of soldiers both American and not. Where is the publicity for those lost lives? Where is the media coverage on the Iraqi civilian death toll? I'd bet my life it is drastically higher then the deaths from the "terrorist" attacks in 2001. This is not only trivial, but ridiculously over-hyped. Just a cozy little blanket to pull over America's inflated head, so they can sleep at night, and think that the 9/11 deaths are now somehow justified. What about justice for every civilian Iraqi that had to die so they could find him? Sure, let's just ignore them because they arent as widely publicized, and pump our fists in the air patriotically over the death of one individual who the media have claimed was resonsible. Nothing has changed, no one is redeemed, and those murders are not ANY less tragic because one man was shot in the head. This is making me angry. I'm already sick of hearing about it.

lies. all lies.

Her mouth is dry, so she takes another gurgling drink from an almost empty 2L of stale Coke and looks in the mirror. Week old make-up is streaked across a paling face, and dark circles surround eyes no longer bright and blue… but hollow, and as black as the hair that falls in greasy ribbons around her, sweat soaked and matted to the back of her neck and chest. Her white t-shirt was always too big, but now swallows her whole, layered with a dirty grey zip-up that hangs off one shoulder. Skeletal wrists are concealed in the sleeves, sliced up and down in short, deep gashes… the way that bleeds more. Flecks of white dust can still be traced along her cracked lips… as she slumps suddenly to the bathroom floor.

Hmmmm… must be almost time now…

She smiles at the empty bottle of prescription sedatives, as it falls out of her open hand and rolls across the thick white tiles to rest near a crumpled pile of paper. The truth was there, in those pages, and she found it. The truth… that she was a liar.

One who would do anything to feel numb again.

Anything…