The Lifespan of a Fly

You Have Been Un-Friended
August 30, 2011, 2:42 PM
Filed under: Generalizations | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Normally I’ll do a substantive Facebook clean up where people from elementary school and people you meet at parties and have pictures of you get erased. However, this all-encompassing attitude towards a Facebook cleanse isn’t working out for me. Therefore, I am now setting guidelines which will determine on an individual basis who I will be deleting from Facebook. Since this blog is linked to my profile, I expect that those who read this will either delete me first, or follow my new rules.

1. If you update your status more than 5 times a day, you shall be un-friended. If your life is that interesting I beg you to please start keeping a journal, use Twitter or go on reality TV and get paid for it.

2. If you post pictures of what you’re eating/will eat/have eaten. It looks yummy to you, to me it looks like a 1975 Company’s Coming cookbook. If you’re not inviting me for dinner, stop inviting me to look at what I’m not invited to eat.

3. OMG!!!. If I see this I assume there must be something so goddamn awesome you can’t even finish your sentence involved. If awesomeness isn’t involved, please stop using this to explain how your cat, Mr. Muffins, ate mothballs yesterday.

4. Pictures of your pedicure. Don’t care, they’re toenails and your feet are callused. Yuck

5. Repeated status updates relating to your job. You’re employed, I’m employed, we don’t do it cause it’s fun. Got it. I don’t care. I don’t know how else to explain it, but I can guarantee no one else cares either. Except for maybe your boss, who would be happy to relieve you of your consistent complaining about your job. He calls it “unemployment”.

This is the beginning of the end. Please continue posting pictures of your vacation, so that I can compare its awesomeness to the awesomeness of my own holiday. Please continue misspelling everything so that my snobbish friends and I can mock your idiocy. Please continue updating your relationship status, bad and good, so that I can currently track who is dating out of their league.

Go forth and create Facebook goodness.

*Note: Sure I can block you on my Newsfeed, but if I don’t want to see your shit, I might as well un-friend you.


What Harry Potter and LOST Have Given Me
July 18, 2011, 9:53 AM
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Harry Potter. Oh Harry, your books are over, your movies have played, your battle is won and now my heart is void. I had the same feeling when watching the final episode of LOST, a television show Mike and I watched (and will again) with a fervor that borders on zealous. It wasn’t the horribly sad ending (which both had) that brought tears to my eyes. No, what made me bawl and smear my make up was knowing that something I’ve loved, and has been in a part of my life for the last twelve years, is over.

Sure, I’ll still pick up the books, and each time I read them, the story will be like new to me (unlike many people, I can re-read stories hundreds of times and still enjoy every minute of it). But still, it’s over and I’m sad. Harry Potter’s my buddy, just like John Locke and Jack Sheppard were. I knew them intimately and rooted for them even during their most vulnerable moments.

Although I’m sad, the sort of sadness that you get when a good friend moves far away and you know you’ll probably never see them again, I’m also thankful. I’m thankful for books like Harry Potter and shows like LOST because they gave me something, and reminded me that my love for stories is too overwhelming to ignore. I became a writer because of epic tales that span years to tell. If you want to do the story justice that is. They reminded me that there is still magic in this world.

I don’t know how other writers feel, only how I feel, and I truly believe that to write, you must believe in magic. Not just the magic we possess to entrance readers, to pull them into a different world and introduce them to creatures and people of our imaginations, but real magic. I believe in magic. I believe that there are things out there that happen which are so strange, so impossible, so fantastical that magic has to be real.

I believe in magic because without it, we’re just moving around and living in a world which is so clearly laid out for us. We are born, we go to school, we finish school, we go to more school, we finish that one, then we get jobs, get married, have children, all that stuff. I choose to believe that there are places in our world where magic hides, where you can find it if you really listen to your heart and feel it.

I have to believe in magic because without it I’m only telling the same story again and again and again. Once a year, when the new Harry Potter would come out (book, movie, whatever) my belief was renewed, I was reminded of the magic that’s hidden away. Now that it’s done, the onus is on me. I get no more reminders, from now on, I have to find that magic for myself, and bring it to you with words and characters.

An Amicable Conversation with a Drunk and No Pants
June 27, 2011, 7:23 AM
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I still remember the first apartment Mike and I lived in together. It had peeling laminate and windows that could maybe save 1.5 legs if a fire occurred, which they did regularly. That would have to be due to The Gas Pump, a bar from the early seventies located at the bottom of our apartment building. It hasn’t changed since the seventies, including the patrons who have since grown harsher as the years have passed. Every night the shouts and screams of middle-aged drunks in the midst of their mating rituals floated up and into our bedroom, lulling us to sleep. The sounds of sirens would wake us up as yet another fire was started, either by the drunks of by the homeless people who would sleep in our stairwells and light fires to stay warm. Mike and I would look at each other, debate how much we wanted to stand outside in January weather, at 2 a.m., in our pajamas and instead decide to just go back to sleep. Six months later we moved.

That was seven years ago, and finally, the patrons of the Gas Pump have found us. Actually, it was the ghetto that found us. Sure, it’s unlikely you’re going to be pumped full of ammunition in my neighbourhood (although it has happened), but try to cross the street without meeting a gangster (15 years old and pissed off that Mom took his PS3 away), or having your bottles stolen by the multitudes of bottle people.

I have a bat, and it has pointy edges, and I practiced hitting intruders with it. I don’t want to kill someone, just maim them.

So anyhow, we’ve got new neighbours. That’s right, the Crackheads next door moved out (and by moved out I mean trashed the place and abandoned it), but it’s all good because they’ve been replaced by drunks. I sorta miss the Crackheads though. At least they hid out in their condo and smoked crack and I could only hear them yelling and screaming through the vents. The drunks have taken this to a whole new level.

I have to give them some credit though, they are more apt at yard work then the prisoners on day release whose only job it is to cut our lawn, when they come, which is next to never. The drunks are all about keeping a nice and tidy lawn. So much so that they’ve decided that 4 a.m. is a wonderful time to mow their 8’x10′ lawn with one of those push mowers from before electricity became a household item.

Granted it is nice and cool out at 4 a.m., but none the less, we needed to have a chat. I explained to one of the drunks (and I believe I’ll have to explain it to the other 10 that seems to sort of live there) that 4 a.m. isn’t exactly a “neighbourly” time to be shouting and boozing it up. I think our chat went very well, it definitely progressed after I asked him “You are drunk right now, aren’t you?” A question he could not deny, only confirm with a sad nod of his head.

Regardless, I think he and I may have reached an understanding: He shuts up after midnight, we get along wonderfully. He makes noise after midnight, I phone the police, his landlord and the condo board until they eventually remove him and he’s got to move back into his mother’s nursing home.

I think we’ve reached an agreement, but I wasn’t wearing any pants during this heart-to-heart. That may have had something to do with it.

My Fanny Pack Can Beat Up Your Fanny Pack
June 15, 2011, 8:33 AM
Filed under: Generalizations | Tags: , , , , , , , ,

That’s right, I have a fanny pack. Now before you start snickering behind your hand, please understand that this is no ordinary fanny pack. J accused me of fanny-packing and began comparing me to her father who regularly dressed up to meet her looking like a redneck janitor (this is Alberta, we’ve seen our share of them). I’d like to take this opportunity to publicly clear the air about my fanny pack vs. regular lame fanny packs.

First, let’s get a few things straight.

The Fanny Pack was carefully created by Tibetan monks to be used in all sorts of survival situations. It boasts a front pocket, which many would think should be used to house credit cards and a few bucks for beach time fun. This is wrong! Seemingly innocent, the pocket is meant to house things like grappling hooks, trail mix, pointy knives, extra ammunition and garlic (vampires), for those times when you just have to go out and kick nature in her sharp, pointy teeth. There is no beach time fun involved here.

The Fanny Pack also has a holder for your water bottle. Many would assume this is so you can hike with ease and delicately finger wildflowers while feeding chipmunks your trail mix. This is also wrong! The true purpose is to keep your hands free for Yeti fights, which one regularly runs into out in the wilderness. Yetis are impermeable, surviving against even the strongest blade. Their only weakness is their eyes, where your fingers must jab and jab until they explode in a cloud of purple smoke (this is science, don’t argue with me).

Last, but not least….

STFU J. I’m not gonna carry your goddamn chapstick if you make fun of my fanny pack again.

The Anti-Bucket List
June 10, 2011, 7:39 AM
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A few years ago, on our flight home from Italy, Mike and I watched the Bucket List. Not together, cause that would be sort of weird with those little headphones they used to supply you with (Air Canada is a bunch of pricks) and you just know the person before you had some contagious ear disease and for three hours all you can think of is “I can feel it crawling into my brains… oh God my brains”. Anyhow, we took bets on who among our fellow passengers would start crying. Mike cried, proving he has the soul of a lamb. I didn’t, proving I have the soul of the lion who would destroy that lamb.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Wait, shit, where was I? Ah yes, the spawning of the Anti-Bucket List. Since I’m never going to die (and if by some change I do, it will be in a fiery spectacular form which will awe all the little children out of their candy), having a bucket list seems pretty pointless. So I’ve created a list of thing I never want to do before my inevitable immortal reign (with Skynet’s help of course).

The Anti-Bucket List
1. I never want to go to Australia – There are spiders that eat birds, which are the size of your face. Therefore, able to eat your face.
2. I never want to watch an episode of The Big Bang Theory and laugh.
3. Play hide-n-seek with God (that bastard cheats).
4. Be the middleman in the Human Centipede.
5. Own a cat.
6. Eat real Chinese food – not this ginger beef shit.
7. Move back to Ontario.
8. Admit that I know how to fix almost any photocopier.
9. Listen to WSPA people who stand on corners and try to convince me hunting is bad – at least that’s what I think they want.
10. Plummet to the Earth at top speed and hope my parachute opens – commonly known as Sky Diving.
11. Buy a Coach purse.
12. Pretend that golf, tennis or bowling is an actual sport.
13. Watch golf, tennis or bowling on television and be interested.
14. Stop brushing my teeth.
15. Cheer for a hockey team just because they’re “Canadian”, although most of their players are European. Yes Vancouver, I’m looking at you.
16. Go camping with the Donner Party.
17. Watch another Pirates of the Caribbean movie.
18. Be a “Furry” – whatever the fuck that is, it sounds pretty weird.
19. Pretend CSI is deeply insightful and actually has a legitimate story line.
20. Give up on finding the Island in LOST – it exists, and I will find it.
21. Care about MSG and how much water I’m drinking in a day.
22. Take myself too seriously.
23. Spend more time worrying about the people who will never like me then I do with the ones who love me.
24. Give up the belief that magic is real and so is Harry Potter.
25. Stop dancing like I don’t care who is watching.

The New Black?

This is why I refuse to get a chaise lounge. Naked people....

So I’ve been seeing this advertisement posted all over the Internet, particularly Facebook, in the past 24 hours or so. I wanted to talk about this today because I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. On one hand, my inner-feminist and outer-chubby girl are all like “F*CK YEAH!” Bust down conventional beauty standards, portray women as they really are and not as the fashion and beauty industry tell us we should look like! You know, all that socialist-female-jazz. I feel proud to be a woman when I see an image that shocks people. And besides, Ruby’s one hot tamale!

But then there’s this little voice in my head that also wants to have a say in this. It whispers words like: diabetes, heart disease, cancer, cholesterol, eating disorders, and other creepy things that have been proven to be associated with a little junk in da trunk.

While I’m not trying to criticize an advertisement that is meant to empower women, I wonder what will be accomplished by this. I had one Facebook friend post this image up and mention Marilyn Monroe. I’ve heard Ms. Monroe was anywhere from a size 12 to a size 16, and her beauty and her curves were renown across the globe. And yet, this woman boozed and drugged herself into an early grave. So is she really a role model for women striving to break down conventional beauty standards? Perhaps there are some other strong women we can take a look at as role models for ourselves, and the generation of women that will follow us. Women such as Jan Arden and Queen Latifa who are beautiful, strong, ambitious, outspoken, and curvy.

So I suppose where I’m confused here is this: are we trying to become healthier, not only as women, but as a nation in crisis? Or are we trying to make excuses for ourselves and guilt others into agreeing with us? Are diabetes and heart disease the new black?

A Sad Tale of Men and Breasts
May 31, 2011, 8:01 AM
Filed under: Generalizations

For a small donation, you can change one woman's life forever

Most of the time I hate Facebook, but like picking scabs, I just can’t stop logging on and checking out what people are up to. A peer of mine (you can check her out at posted a link up to a website that allows men to make monetary donations which provide for young, poor, pathetic women to get free breast implants. Poor women, they only have B-cups. Oh my, how else will they climb the corporate pole ladder? Brains and work ethic only goes so far you know.

Anyhow, for a small donation, men out there can make the hopes and aspirations come true for women who have always wanted the pain pleasure of large breasts. Who would deny them this dream? Strippers and Hoochie-Mama’s rejoice! Out there, somewhere on the wild, unfettered Internet, there’s a man who would just love to make your dream of big bouncy cha-cha’s true!

But it’s sad really. These generous men, they donate their hard-earned money, money that could be used to give their own wives bigger breasts (how self-less of them). Yet, they cannot lay claim to these exotic melons they helped create. Sure, the boobs write them letters and send them pictures as they grow up, move onto college and eventually meet the right boy for them. It breaks my heart you know, to think that these men put their love, hard work, and their soul into the development of some lovely man-made cha-chas and yet can never touch, cuddle, or caress them. It just seems so unfair, you know?

Oh the tragedy! The tragedy!