Support systems are crucial

I was telling Ramona about my characters (if you think I can think about anything besides my book when I'm writing this much a day, you are sorely mistaken).

I was speaking and I didn't think she was getting the point so I said, "They're real people, you know."

She replies, "I know."

I squeeze her knee, "Awe, I love you."

"Yeah, I don't even think your crazy for that." (Hearing voices in my head.) "Your crazy for other things."

Best friend status? Reaffirmed.

Writers need people who accept our psychotic tendencies. I am lucky enough to have an amazing family who support me in this crazy endeavor - going so far as to offer themselves as the crash test dummies for my novel. I have friends who care - both offline and on. And I have you, the people who stop by and read my drivel.

So when your slaving over your novel, when you feel like dying cause the pressure is too much turn to your support system. They won't let you down and they may surprise you by cheering you in the most unexpected ways. (I mean, who enjoys being called crazy?)

Who do you turn to?

All I want is everything

Today I carved pumpkins. It was so much fun I wanted to be a sculptor.

In a creative mood but unwilling to start the paintings for my sister's Christmas present, I went to the craft store. There, I varied between wanting to design T-Shirts, make jewelry and decorate cakes.

When I got back home, I hung out with my friend Ramona and, bored, I decided to do her makeup. I wanted to be a makeup artist and do this: (Makeup inspired by the Cheshire Cat)

And this: (Strawberry and leaves)

Everyday. 

This is everything I wanted to be - today. 

Sometimes, I want to be everything.

And you know what? That's what I love about storytelling and writing, it can take me places and live lives I never could have on my own. I can be anything my imagination conjures. If it doesn't work out, I can set that life aside for a rainy day and move on to the next. 

No strings. No years of schooling. Nothing to hold me back except the limitations I set upon myself. 

Now that, my friends, is freedom. 

What's one thing you love about writing? Your passion? Ever have any wild dreams besides being a writer/whatever you are now?

Five Things

I wanted to do this post last Monday because it was Thanksgiving day in Canada but I was sick with the stomach flu (all better now!) all week and was about as productive as a sloth - actually, I was probably less productive.

Five things I'm thankful for (in no particular order).

1. That I actually love family dinners. My aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents are absolutely hilarious. The teasing never gets old and the all around insanity makes every meal novel worthy. I'm so happy I don't have to dread family affairs.

2. That my cat is so attuned to me that when she saw me loosing my guts in the toilet, she did the same beside me. It may be gross subject matter but you just don't find bonds like that every day.

3. That technology can keep us close to those we love even when they are far away.

4. That Jen gave me the final shove I needed to get over my excuses (University! Books! TV! Friends! Homework!) and sign up for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, for those of you unaware). I've figured it all out and I need just over fifty thousand words to finish my book.

5. That my own moral ambiguity is such that it has allowed me to justify finishing my own novel during NaNoWriMo instead of coming up with a new idea. (I mean, come on fifty thousand words in thirty days? This kind of real pressure is exactly what I need.)

What are you Thankful for? Anyone joining NaNoWriMo? If you are, add me as a writing buddy!

Getting It Out

This isn’t good writing. Hell, it’s probably bad writing (I haven’t read it, just wrote it five minutes after the bottle of water). I’m posting it on blogger because I need to get this crap into the universe. Maybe then the world will start to make sense again. I feel like I’m in some alternate reality and I’ll wake up and my mom won’t really be here, like I’ve made a better reality in my own mind – one where she lived. 

She screamed my name, I turn to see the surf beating her down. She surfaces and I’ve never seen such terror. My heart stops beating. My terror rises to match mom’s. She’s going to die. I can’t watch my momma die. Momma. She tries to reach my outstretched hand. I needed her to reach my fingers. If I could just touch her fingers I knew it would be okay. Every time she got close another wave slammed into her, ripping her further away from me.

I can’t get any closer to her, the stone is soaked and the moss will steal my footing and I know, know despite my desperate need to reach her, that if I move closer, I’ll be gone as well. And then there will be no one to help. As I kneel the waves sweep over my legs and lower abdomen. It’s supposed to be cold but I can’t feel anything.

I scream. For her. For help. For anything that will make it better.

Running steps. Voices.

Hope.

Other partygoers have come to help. P steps into the surf, his hands close around my mothers. Another wave comes to sweep him out. D, his son, jumps in the water to help his father. A crowd is behind me, someone brings a lifesaver.

My baby sister comes running, ignores her self-preservation and goes to leap after my mom. She’s grabbed as she slips, and is pulled backward. Uncle S throws the lifesaver out. It doesn’t reach.

P and D get my mom to stand. Her dress is around her waist. Pull down your dress before you embarrass yourself – god, what am I thinking. My mom could die and this is what I think? A wave smashes them down. P and D move with the tide and push her forward. Sister grabs her hand and mom is dragged out. J, P’s wife and D’s mother runs in to save her family. I feel her pain.

My mom stands behind me, surrounded by others. Crying, chanting over and over “Look what I’ve done.”

I’m glad she’s safe but I’m too petrified to turn to her. To see her. Because I thought she was going to be gone and I don’t know how to deal.

I watch the other three get pulled out.

My cousin M turns towards me. I start shaking. Tears pour down my face. He wraps an arm around me and tells me its okay. I get myself under control. I walk back to my Uncle’s house, get a drink of water – my hands won’t stop shaking.

July twenty fourth my heart stopped beating. For one, horrifying, moment I thought I was going to lose my mother. I wasn’t ready.

The water mesmerizes you as it crashes against the beach, the waves sparkle and entice. You’re seduced by the sheer magnificence stretched along the horizon. You want to join, to feel just for a moment, what the ocean does. You dip your toes in. Relish in the freedom.

Peace settles over you, nature’s beauty spread beneath you. Maybe you feel powerful.

And then with a mischievous grin, the water tries to steal you, to assert it’s dominance. To prove that no matter how strong man feels, he will never have the upper hand.

Two Families, Too Awesome

Thursday night, I notice Sister devoting the majority of her attention to the computer. I notice because she’s letting me watch whatever television program I want too, without any argument. At first I don’t comment, because well (to be cliché), I didn’t feel like looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Until my curiosity wins out, as it always does and I climb into the gift horse to check out its insides. “Whatcha doing?”

“Looking at pictures of B and S.” She blandly answers, eyes never leaving the screen, “I want to see what they’re like, before they get here.”

Excellent idea Sister. Let’s do the mandatory Facebook creepage before meeting our cousins (several times removed). So, I join her. Unfortunately, pictures do not say a thousand words and we really had no idea what our cousins were like. The only advantage is we have now memorized their facial features. Looks, however, don’t say much about one’s character.

And when people are staying with me for three days, I would like some warning as to their personalities.

(To be honest I was vehemently against them coming.)

As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about.

Friday night S texts my cell – obviously my mom gave her my number - asking if I want to watch Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince when they get to my house. I’m always down for anything Harry Potter.  

We were off to a good start.

As the evening (and weekend) progresses we realize we have similar tastes in books and movies.  We all share similar food preferences too like Manchu Wok (a fast-food Chinese restaurant), Subway, sushi, Iced Tea, Pepsi and White Cheddar Popcorn. Both B and I can eat a jar of pickles in a day (for dinner on Sunday we ate a jar and a half of pickles...before the main course).  

The resemblance between our family dynamics is startling. B and S bemoan their mother’s lack of savvy in using technology. Sister and I do the same. B and S also have the same love/hate relationship Sister and I share, complete with the same sort of volleyed comments as well as similar tones of voice.

On Saturday we head to the mall. Mother told me before they arrived that S was older than B. So I say something about their ages and B responds: “Actually I’m older. But people always think S is older.”

I’m horrified (and silently cursing Mother), “I’m so sorry B. I know how much it sucks when people always think you’re the younger one. Everyone always thinks Sister is older than I am and it really pisses me off.”

B replies: “It’s okay.”

S says: “It’s probably just because I’m taller. But I don’t really think I look older.”

“Sister’s taller than me too. I wouldn’t have said anything but Mom said S was older. So it’s her fault.”

We laugh and talk of other things, all really annoyed with this idiotic driver who was in front of me. Turns out he was old and Asian. Not a very good combination. 

We separated in Forever 21 (a great store for bargain hunting and cheap – but good – clothes) because it’s massive and all three of us twenty-something’s bought some clothes. After, when sharing our purchases, we discover that B and I (the two older sisters) bought the exact same dress/shirt.

There are so many small similarities too. For example, while the rest of the world calls them remotes the six of us call it a controller (because it controls the TV! Duh!). It’s not just the common likes and dislikes either. It’s the way we interact and talk and what we find funny.

The instant we sat down to watch Harry Potter it was an instant mix. Our dynamics complement each other.  There isn’t an iota of awkwardness between us. (Even today when I admitted to hating the idea of their arrival. Going so far as to explain, in detail, just how much I didn’t want them to come.)

Perhaps it’s genetics. Perhaps it’s the similarities between Mom and Cousin W themselves. Who knows. We probably never will. (I mean scientists still can’t agree on Nature VS. Nurture – who am I to act as judge and jury on the matter.)

All I know for sure is the similarities went a long way in dispelling the awkward, distant family, reunion. The tension and stress of having strange people in my home, evaporated and it seems like we’ve known each other for awhile. There’s a certain familiarity in it all. I see Sister, Mom and I in them. Not to mention the abundance of laughter and surprise we experienced every time there was a new revelation pertaining to just how similar we were.

Two families separated by two provinces, bound by genetics. We should be different. But I’m glad we aren’t.

Word Of The Day: Tautology - saying the same thing twice in different words.

Apples and Potatoes

(Picture from here)

The mysterious, ever illustrious they always say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And, readers, I think I’m starting to buy into their propaganda.

Today after my English final (harder than I thought, though I love my essay topic – how people cope when faced with their mortality. In short in the essay there’s necrophilia and vigilante superheroes, you can’t get much more intense than that) I went home, did a bunch of boring things then went to my grandparents.

My grandma broke her elbow two weeks ago and had to have surgery, so she needs help with things like filing her nails and washing her hair. Anyways, so I was just going to file her nails and help her wash her hair but my Uncle B came over to make my grandparents supper. We end up staying.

Now my Uncle B has a talent for saying uncomfortable things at the perfect moment and his humour is fairly dry. So is mine. I also have traits from my grandmother (brutal honesty). And even a bit of the Absentminded Professor from my grandfather.

But the real reason for this post comes after dinner, when my mother and I went to the supermarket after supper.

We go through the store, grabbing trail mix and Eggo’s and other random bits for our trip to Whistler this weekend. My mom laughs because whenever I grab the boxes I grab the one hidden behind the first. It’s something she does and never thinks about. Neither do I.

After a rather mundane shopping trip, we take the gaudy yellow cart to the car and I hold said cart while my mother unloads the bags. A giant cooler sits in the middle of the trunk; loading is a little slower than usual. There’s also a pile of leftovers, for Sister, sitting in the one corner.

A lady honks her horn, startling me. I drop the grocery bag I’m holding into the trunk. I glare, grumbling about rude people, as I move the gaudy cart out of the way. It’s blocking a section of the parking space beside me. I would feel bad, if, you know, the parking lot had more than three cars in it. There’s ample parking and she just has to pick the one beside our car, that’s blocked because I’m trying to help my mom get everything settled, so we can leave (we both really had to pee!).

I mean, why can’t she pick somewhere else?

My mom comments on the multitude of spots available and I pick up the dropped grocery bag. Oh shit. When I dropped the bag, it knocked over the pile of leftovers, dislodged the lid on the mashed potatoes and corn and now there’s mashed potatoes and corn all over that corner of the trunk. The potatoes are mashed into the carpet since the bag was lying on them.

I apologize, feeling bad, because my mom is upset. Meanwhile, Lady in the silver truck parks.

My mom grabs a handful of the potatoes and corn, looks at it for a moment, and then chucks it at Lady’s truck. The potatoes make a wonderful splashing sound upon impact and coat the back wheel with gunk (that was, quite honestly, delicious).

I stare. My mind not really comprehending the childish behaviour, as if to assure me it had happened, my mom does it again. And again. And again. She’s laughing and I find that I am too.

“That’s not the kind of reaction you should have when someone annoys you.” Mom says, all serious, until she starts laughing again.

So that’s where I get it. My mom. All those random fits of immaturity, that are oh so satisfying. Pretty much, my mom with her projectile potatoes is saying: don’t mess with my kids.

Lady in truck leaves said truck. She glares at me as she walks by. She hasn’t noticed the potatoes and corn splashed on her truck. I smile back, because she’ll find the mess later.

My mom says after, regarding her outburst, “I know I shouldn’t have done that. But if you think about, the potatoes would never have been spilt in my car if she hadn’t have honked. So really, it’s her fault anyway.”

And there’s how I rationalize my actions too. Oh mother, the life lessons you teach me...

My Cat Is Defective - In The Nicest Way

Back in December my sister rescued an eight month old Birman cat that was being abused by two kids – pushing and pulling her. They were so cruel the cat ran into the wild and it took months for her to be caught. Some may call this stealing, since, you know, the owners think their cat was eaten by a coyote. But the kids were horrible and horrible kids only get coal. Parents teach us this at a young age, so....

I feel no remorse.

Anyway, so we got this cat. Since Sister was hailed as The Saviour, she got the honour of naming the new addition to our family. After vetoing such jewels as Cat, Baileys, Rock, and It she settled on Sidewalk. That’s right.

Your aren’t suddenly dyslexic and reading this wrong. She really named the cat Sidewalk. After several days of the...unmitigated genius of that, Sister decided to shorten Sidewalk to Mia. How Mia is the short way of saying Sidewalk, I'm uncertain. I am, however, thankful.  

Sidewalk was really only funny for an hour.

Mia Sidewalk (her official name) is not a normal cat. And just in case you’re sitting there, wallowing in disbelief, I will offer you evidence, with pictures (when applicable) of the eight reasons why she is superior to other cats.

First: She's bipolar (and crazy!). One second she's all I love you, and cuddling and purring like it's a competitive sport. Then, suddenly, she snaps and goes all attack (half-the time she's still purring at this stage....probably because being vicious makes her happy - I do understand this). ]

This is her attack face. Are you frightened?

During psycho stage, she bites really hard. She will also rip around the house jumping over furniture and flying across wood flooring. It's intense. And loud (that thing about cats being light on their feet? Yeah, it's a lie). She also does these crazy high flying leaps, like an Olympian. No joke.

One second she's gnawing on your hand, the next, she's licking it again, purring and totally ready for a several hour nap.

Second: she makes friends with other animals she's wired to hate. Meaning, my dog. They play fight all the time: he pins her and bites, she bites and scratches. They sneak up on each other and go crazy, but never actually try to hurt the other. Tye (my dog) chases her up trees, which is very amusing. He'll jump up the tree and bite at her butt if she's too low. Also, once, he figured out she needs to back all the way down the tree, and he can knock her off when she gets low enough... she didn't like that too much.

And yet, while they play, the truly strange thing is that they cuddle. Also, he's locked outside all day and when he get's let in every afternoon, she gets really excited and they animal kiss (with their noses). They greet each other like best friends who haven't seen each other in days (instead of only hours). It's, honestly, very sweet.

 

Third: she actually enjoys her bath. The other day she allowed herself to float in the water. Float. Now how many ingrained biological instincts is that going against? I couldn't snap a picture of her floating (she knew I wanted one and was being difficult).

Note, however, the utter lack of claws.

And how sweet she looks walking around in the tub, and not trying to escape. You can see all the shampoo floating around! Yikes. But she's really soft after. I bathe her every week so to prevent me dying of allergies. [yes, I am allergic to my cat, but only her saliva so as long as she's bathed I'm fine]

Fourth: The simplest things amuse her. Fingers under blankets, fingers in general, string, anything really. She also has the toy racoon she goes psycho over. But I've never seen her so excited than when there's a bbox lying around. She twists and turns and curls in it, both using it as a complex plaything (how, I don't know, but she sees it) and as a sleeping cubby.

Fifth: she's a thief. Nothing is safe, not hairties, bobby pins, pens, or makeup brushes. Everything is fair game and she will take it and hide it all. She also tries to steal my laptop. Try being the operative word. She does a magnificent job of chewing at the corners and lying on the keypad when I'm typing because she wants it. So far, I'm still winning this one.

Sixth: she's clever. Dangerously so. I could go on about how smart she is but I'll just give you one example: she was locked in my room and was scratching at the door. She was annoyed it wouldn't open and I refused to acknowledge her cries. She stretched up and tried twice to pull at the handle of my door (she's seen me do it many times). She suceeded. Mia opened the door by using the handle. Blows your mind, doesn't it? 

Seven: her favorite food is Cheese Whiz. She goes crazy for that yellow, smooth, goodness.

Eight: she never shuts up. I've never seen a cat who talked so much. She meows constantly. Everyday she meows at me to clean her litter. She wakes me up everyday by meowing at me, her face centimeters from mine (this happens periodically throughout the night as well). She meows when I have to go to school, or out with my friends. She meows when I'm gone (which annoys my mom). She meows when she wants to play and when she wants more attention. She also meows for the hell of it. I know all of this because they all sound different.

If you hadn't noticed, I'm so one of those crazy cat ladies. This post is very long. If you didn't finish it. Well, your loss. My cat is fantastic. This should be very obvious. She's also crazy, but that's why I love her so much.

Anybody out there got any pets they love?

Galliano Island

So I finally got around to uploading my pictures from this past summer. I know its a little late, considering, you know, the time of year and all. But to be completely cliché, better late than never, right?

I wanted to share some of my pictures (hope no one minds!) because though I'm no photographer, I do really enjoy taking pictures and I think they turned out pretty decent.

This one's a tad blurry, but I absolutely love the colors.

How the trees seem nothing more than silhouettes and the water appears pink and purple.

Some branches I thought were pretty wicked.

I spent a really long time trying to get some awesome crashing wave shots.

I rather enjoy the slightly violent nature to this one.

My absolute favorite water picture.

It's small but it seems rather exciting, non?

Cheerful, almost.

And, finally, my piece de resistance.

The trip itself was amazing. There's a definite magic on Galliano Island, specifically at my Uncle's. I wish I felt my abilities as a writer were strong enough to capture it. But I doubt I could get it just right. So I suppose you'll have to forgive me that. And content yourself with a few snapshots.

[blogger was being really stupid with the formatting of these pictures... it took me like an hour!]

Melissa

Take A Walk

(Photo taken from here: this guy has some really awesome pictures)

In a car, you are nothing more than a passive observer. You’re so used to it you no longer notice. Everything is moving around you boringly through a frame, through the car window, it’s all just more television.

When you walk the frame is gone. You’re there. You’re in the scene, no longer simply watching, and the sense of presence is addicting.

The reaffirming concrete beneath your soles is real. You’re lost among the chaos of the sleepless action. The world around you changes. The change is tangible; you see it in the mismatched trees as one color devours the next. If you’d like, you can reach out and touch the leaves – you can feel the red and yellow bleed into the green.

Do you feel it?

Instead of listening to your playlist like background noise you can listen to the symphony of the street. The unique chorus of people going about their lives, of nature competing with the city for dominance: the music that’s all around us we choose to ignore in favour of this week’s Top Twenty.

Do you hear it?

The whole experience is never removed from your immediate consciousness. You’re aware. Someone is watching you; you’re the actor people wish they were or were with. You’re the one living, no longer passively going about your day. You’re alive.

Do you want it?

Come Hither Fair Drama!

I have a feeling I like drama. I leave everything to the last minute and then hope and pray it all works out. Why do I do this to myself? I always say next time will be different – better. Well, when next time rolls around I’m still scrambling to get everything done. It doesn’t even matter what it is.

It’s like I get some twisted pleasure from not having everything sorted out. And then when I’m overwhelmed I complain because there is just so much; how will I ever finish; the world is ending!

Somehow, I pull it all together and I come out okay.

But why do I create this needless abuse? What is the point?

Do I not like being happy and enjoying school? Do I like stress and drama and ripping out my hair?

I would like to say no. I would also then be lying. I don’t try to like it (I think it’s all subconscious... boy would Skinner have fun trying to condition me) yet I continuously do it. Maybe if I wasn’t so good at dealing with pressure and feeling like my world is crumbling things would be different.

Maybe if the whole will I or won’t I scenario didn’t light my fire...

But I do my best under pressure. If I don’t feel as though the weight of the world is on my shoulders, nothing gets done because there is nothing motivating me. It’s the damn procrastinator in me (I really need to do something about my laziness, it can’t be healthy).

On another note: I’m really getting into the whole swing of blogging... I remember when I thought all bloggers were silly – thought the whole thing was a waste of time (obviously, I was wrong!).

Jeesh, next thing you know I’ll be on twitter.

Tricks and Treats

I may not have gone on a party bus with forty five of my closest friends and gotten smashed last night (like my eighteen year old sister, who consequently, ended up going to the hospital because of her drunken escapades...her knee started acting up – what is with the two of us and inflammation this week?)

But I enjoyed giving out candy and watching scary movies with my Mom.

Since my Mom was giving out treats, she decided that she should also give the kids some tricks too. Half the time she would quickly swing the door open and yell “BOO!”

A darling little girl, just taller than my mom’s knee in a princess outfit looked up at her (in a way only little girls can) and said, “You didn’t scare me!”

My Mom, however, did have some success. She got one kid. One. And you would not even believe how proud of herself she was. There was a happy dance and several retellings to the parents of other Trick-Or-Treaters. Her treat for scaring the little (jumping) boy was some M&M’s.

Pet Semetary was on TV last night. Holy shit. I thought I was dark. I have nothing on Stephen King. Nothing. That guy is twisted (he also kind of looks like a turtle...).

I am now forever afraid of any little boys named Gage...heck, I think I’m now afraid of little boys in general. They are so deceptively cute, and they giggle and want to play games with you. It’s all fun and games until the little boy takes Daddy’s scalpel and slits your Achilles tendon and rips out your jugular with his two-year-old teeth. Yeah, not so much fun anymore, is it?

Hope everyone else had a good Halloween.

You should be happy to note that I got my Treat too (for having to go to the hospital). I got a new (also free) carpet today (well for me it’s new, but it’s in pristine condition and bigger than my old one). No more mystery (or not so mysterious) stains from drunken nights at my house with friends (meaning parties – most of them had behind my Mom’s back...).

I felt rather pathetic when my seventy-five-year-old grandparents and Mom ripped up the old carpet and put down the new one. Without my help. My bodies still recovering and I was a bit too shaky so I just watched (they also told me to get out of their way).

I wore my Swine face mask to avoid the dust and keep my grandparents safe from my coughing. There were some issues with Demon Bookcase and The Bed but otherwise all went well. It looks great and we’re all pretty happy about it.

A new carpet is a pretty nice treat, all things considered. So is having amazing Grandparents (they are hilarious, never pinch my cheeks, their house smells great, they are technologically up to snuff, and are superb conversationalists). It’s nice to have them back from Hick Town, Middle of Nowhere, Saskatchewan (they’ve been gone for two weeks visiting my ninety-nine-year-old Great Grandmother).

Anyone else out there with some nice treats heading there way?

The Pro's Of Sickness

The best part about being sick is missing an entire week of school. The worst part about getting sick is missing an entire week of school.

I remember the days when I would have been ecstatic to miss a day of school. Actually, I frequently went out of my way to give myself random holidays (meaning I came up with idiotic reasons on why I deserved not to go).

Now I’m freaking out because I have a midterm next week, have a bunch of assignments that I should be working on and after tomorrow will have missed twelve hours of lectures. That is daunting stuff my friends.

But thanks to the doctors I am now on the mend (though I could really do without this face mask (I’m all for protecting my family but who’s protecting my dignity?)) and will probably be fine to take that Psychology midterm. I’m pretty sure my assignments will be fine too. I have faith in my abilities.

Being sick brings things into perspective, things like what your friends think about you....and your stuff. “Can you ask your mom if when you die I can come over to your house and pick something to remember you by?”

At least people want to remember me. The fact that they can’t (without their grubby fingers grabbing at my leftovers before I’m cold in the ground...before death is even, really, in the cards) is kind of off-putting though. I always liked to see myself as one of those memorable characters. You know the kind that in books or movies, where even if they’ve only got one line, you never forget them. They've just got that extra something.

...

Well, you can’t have everything, right?

The blow was softened by the great idea to simply fill my room with dirt so I can be buried with all my stuff. It just cracked me up. Unfortunately that led to some serious coughing.... probably also brought me one step closer to that whole dying thing (temporarily of course). It also led to my mom wondering how, if my room was filled with dirt, the dog would get to the back door so he could go to the bathroom.

On a less sickly note, I got a bit of writing done. Not as much as I would have liked but a tad, which is much better than the last couple of months. I’ve been really pathetic with the whole writing thing (on my book) but, apparently the endings changed slightly and things have been moved around (all in my head of course).

And so, in the spirit of getting the ball rolling again, what better time to sink my teeth back in then when I’m sick. Considering the entire premise came to me when I had pneumonia last year...

Maybe being sick isn’t so bad....

You know, if you ignore all the gritty details, the uncomfortable nature and just generally feeling terrible and well, just allow yourself to not worry about things temporarily out of your control (like school). With all this time on my hands... it lets my characters get really loud in my head, you know... since they're trying to compete with the headache and all...

Word Of The Day: Afflatus - inspiration; an impelling mental force acting from within

My Lucky Day

Today was my lucky day.

Not only was my head filled with valuable (hopefully reusable) information pertaining to two fascinating subjects (Astronomy and Psychology) but I didn’t have any trouble getting the Good Couch in the Student Lounge over my five hour break which is usually a problem on Tuesdays. To add some sprinkles to this already scrumptious day: I received optimal parking, had delicious thanksgiving leftovers, finished all my work, chatted with some friends, and even got in an hour of writing.

And, things only get better when school is done for the day.... right?

I walked into the cafeteria, ecstatic when I noticed there was a spot on the leather couches therein. Plopping down, I set out to wait for Ramona to finish classes so we could drive home, hang out and have an all around enjoyable time.

I was practically humming.

Then, I digested my surroundings. The other three couches were occupied by an eccentric (to put it nicely) group of characters. Obviously all friends, they carried on a lively discussion – now, I’m not going to sit here and condone eavesdropping (what would your mother say, right?) but really, when people are subliminally screaming for attention with their body language and volume, how can you not?

What followed was one of the most scarring 23 minutes and 48 seconds of my life.

It began with an anecdote on the cheap quality of the cafeteria’s spoons. The spoons, you see, melt in the soup. This of course provided them with ample material to make terrible jokes, produce unwanted imagery (for me, at least) and make themselves look like moronic idiots.

They veered off on a tangent to discuss how through the use of Hardcore Metal an average, geeky kid (with acne riddled armour), glasses, and his ever faithful electric guitar would defeat all evil in the world (with a sufficient amount of gore), acquire ceaseless fame along with heaps of cash, and finally win that bodacious babe (who had always been just out of his reach – he would stick it to all the kids who mercilessly teased him with this one, certainly!).

A girl among them, with frumpy clothing and a green (possibly homemade) scarf swathed around her neck turned the debate from The Boy Who Slayed to proper pregnancy prevention. How, I hear you asking?

Well she took the hands on approach.

And no, I don’t mean she grabbed someone, shoved him on the table and proceeded to have her wicked way with him, for all to see.

Instead, she casually took a condom from her wallet (which, may I add, is not a proper storage technique), unwrapped it like Christmas came early and rolled it on. Her hands. Both of them. I stared in absolute horror as she wiggled her fingers in their newfound constraints. She began pulling her hands apart and slowly putting them back together, playing with the resistance of the material.

Surprisingly it took the rest of her comrades a good five minutes to notice her current mode of entertainment. Oh, if only I had been so lucky.

“What are you doing! No, better question - why is there a condom on your hands?” A newcomer – the one to notice her occupation – with wildly bushy hair and neon green, pink and yellow tie-dye cut off shorts asked his friend.

“I like the way it feels.” She replied, perfectly serious.

I threw up a little. No, seriously – who in their bloody right mind would even say such a thing in the middle of a cafeteria when there are loads of people around. Wait, why am I even asking that question when I’m talking about the same girl who whipped it out in the first place.

Obviously the chick is not in her right mind.

Through strenuous analysis (or uncomfortable situations that make one wish they were both blind and deaf – not an often occurrence I assure you) I’ve realized that talking about condoms leads to talking of sex which, in turn, leads to someone feeling the need to express their sexuality.

Within minutes another girl (this one with shredded black leggings so you could see 70% of her legs) predatorily approached the leader of The Boy Who Slayed discussion (obviously a geeky boy, acne and glasses included) before straddling him and giving him a thirty second, free of charge, preview of her future career as a lap dancer.

I know your thinking the same thing I was – what the hell is wrong with these people?

If I knew, I’d tell you.

Every single one of them laughed, cheered her on and then complained when she hopped off him with a saucy little smile and burst into laughter herself.

To add his own piece to the excitement, our observant tie-dye aficionado, decided (and proclaimed) the best way to mix his salad was to imitate a vibrator. I, grudgingly admit, he pulled off the impersonation (can you say that about an inanimate object?) perfectly. Every single muscle in that boy’s body shook aggressively.

It would have been impressive, humorous even, if it wasn’t so horrifying to witness.

Finally, Frumpy Condom Girl's excessive manipulations caused the condom to snap and break. She peeled the tattered remains off her hands, threw the destroyed item on the floor, rubbed her hands together, and sniffed them. Yes, she sniffed them.

Two words that come to my mind? Fucking gross.

Of course, she became the hot topic of discussion among her friends - again.

This proved to be enough for me as I studiously hid behind my computer screen for the last five minutes, unable to do much of anything since I was in such a state of bewilderment.

Throughout all of this random discussion, occasionally someone would break out in a terrible rendition of several lines from random songs. It was overlooked by everyone, it seemed, but me.


Ramona’s class finally let out and she joined me on the couch, apologizing for being late. I wasn’t so forgiving, as I deftly pointed out, I was surrounded by a bunch of freaks. Ramona looked around – one of the boys had decided to stand on the table and make grandiose motions with his hands (only god knows why) – it took her all of 10 seconds to giggle and wholeheartedly agree.

They were whack-jobs, the lot of them.

So you can understand my frustration when Ramona informs me that she forgot about the rehearsal she needed to attend later on, so she wouldn’t be needing that ride after all. I was subjected to that.... suffering, for nothing.

23 minutes and 48 seconds of my life that I will never get back. Good grief, the things one must endure for their friends.

The dénouement to my now (according to the scaling of Good vs. Bad) mediocre day is: traffic was horrendous and though my stomach was grumbling at nearly half past six, there was no dinner.

Ah well, maybe this will brighten someone else’s day as they laugh at the absurdity of it all.

You win some, you lose some, right?

Word Of The Day: Lackadaisical - without interesest, vigor or determination; listless; lethargic; indolent; lazy