Grab Bag

"I've been having unprotected sex with many strangers as of late" I told him. "I am trying to catch a variety of diseases, as well as accumulate a large pool of potential baby daddies. Not that I would choose to become pregnant by any of them, but so that when I mistakenly do my story will be much more attractive for Jerry Springer or Maury Povich."
- 08/11/06

The cigarette produced a scattering of orange embers as it hit the road. There was something beautifully frightening about the whole thing.
- 28/11/06

At first, I was glad to have my sister back in the country. I'd missed her, sort of, and I'd stopped having those nightmares in which she was eaten by angry camels. Soon after I returned to my parents house, I realized that my sister had left something behind when she returned from Africa. That something was her ability to flush a toilet. I'd initially thought she was just trying to conserve water. I applauded her effort, even though I was more than a little grossed out when the bathroom started to smell like urine. I decided that I would let it slide. After all, it would not kill me to flush the toilet upon entering the bathroom. The next day, however, my sister broke the cardinal rule of water conservation in a shared bathroom. That rule, obviously, being the strictly upheld "If it's brown, flush it down."
- 15/12/06

"I hate guys who are just attracted to me because I am Asian" she told me one night. "It is like they have Asian fever. They think Asian women treat them better and are more submissive." The thought made me laugh. "Submissive" is a word that would never cross my mind in association with her name.
A few weeks later, when my parents' puppy was jumping up excitedly in an effort to lick her, I would tell her that she is the first Asian person he has ever seen. "I think he might have Asian fever" I confessed.
- 17/12/06

"We are having a party" I declared as I burst through the front door. I have found, through experience, that it is better to make bold statements rather than ask permission. "We will celebrate the baby Jesus and I will get tanked in front of close family friends and people that you go to church with." Parents love it when you do that kind of stuff. I anticipated a poor turnout and because of that I made sure we invited a shit load of people. When they all showed up, I was both confused and elated. Did you know that people will bring you presents, even if you do not ask for them, when you throw a Christmas party?
- 22/12/06


Jesus was a sailor

I do not remember my first kiss.
I realized this as I sat in the car next to my friend Nina and listened to her talk about the loss of innocence that comes with aging. "Remember when it wasn't about sex? When there was no pressure? Everything was so much more exciting then. Everything was so much more intense,” she said.
Of course, she was right. Nina is always right.
I tried to remember a time when things were that innocent, and, while I can come up with a few instances now, at the time I could not think of one.
Is it wrong to want to return to that time? Just the idea of holding hands was enough to make your heart pound inside of your chest and threaten to explode. I cannot seem to remember a kiss that was not laced with an ulterior motive. A way to get from point A to point B.
Cosmo told me that if you do not sleep with a guy by the third date he will start to lose interest. While I have never considered Cosmo to be the authority on anything, it terrifies me that this could be true.


Robot Santas and Dildos

The house on Spruce St. is shining like a beacon in the dark. We cannot help but float closer and closer to it. The rumour is that it is lit each year as a tribute to their deceased son, but I have never heard an official story. Their neighbours don't even try to decorate their houses anymore. It seems fitting, somehow, that all the other houses lay in darkness.
People flock around the house, taking pictures of overjoyed children, filled with wonder. A robotic Santa sings songs filled with voyeurism and threats. The children, oblivious, continue to clap their hands in amazement as they dance around him. Hard as I try, there is no disguising my fear of androids. My eyes never leave robot Santa; If he tries something, I will be ready for that robot freak.
Later on, we are walking next to the lake talking about everything and nothing. "It counts if there is oral sex or if someone gets fucked with a dildo,” she says, giving her answer to a question I posed months ago.
"I just always wondered if there was a definite moment when it could no longer be considered fooling around anymore. With heterosexual sex it is pretty well defined. It is fooling around up until the point penetration occurs, but with lesbians there is not necessarily penetration. Could a lesbian, after mistakenly spending the night with a gross looking girl, say 'thank god we only fooled around’, or is there a distinct line for lesbian sex too?"


And I don't even know his name

"Which of these binders is cooler?" He asked me, holding up two elegant looking binders, one in either hand. I studied them both for a minute. One was pure black, with the college insignia on it's upper left corner, while the other had an aged, red leather feel to it.
"It's hard to say," I told him honestly. "They are both very nice."
He nodded his agreement, "I know, it's so hard to choose. Wait, what about this one?" He asked, grabbing another binder out from the shelf. Truth be told, it looked like a cheaper version of the first one, and none of them were spectacular.
"No," I told him, "the red one. The red one is cooler." He slowly put back the cast-offs and then turned around and smiled at me. It was a winning smile. It was the kind of smile that made my heart beat just a little faster and caused the butterflies located in my stomach to start flapping their wings.
"Thank you for your help," he said shyly. "I could never have done it without you."
We both stood there for a minute, smiling at one another, before finally continuing on with our tasks for the day.
Three minutes in the campus shop and I was smitten.
I found it hard to concentrate on my midterm a half hour later. I kept wondering what kind of odds I had at running into him again. I promised myself then and there that I would start spending more time at the school once the new semester began.


Now, if he would only stop peeing in the sink

The President always has to be the center of attention. Forget that today is my birthday; there is no occasion when it is acceptable that someone else receive more attention than the President. If, for some unknown reason, someone does start to upstage the President, he steps it up a level.
His newest trick: peeing blood.
2 AM, I stroll in my front door and make my way to my bathroom to shower off a long night of pre-birthday celebration. It is only after I have taken my glasses off, and placed them on the bathroom countertop, that I notice the pools of yellow, with red swirls in the middle, resting at the bottom of my sink. The President had been urinating in the sink (and took a dump in the bathtub), but I had assumed it was because I was slacking on my cat box cleaning duties (which I am fairly confident the dump in the bathtub was about). It now looked as though the President had been urinating in the sink due to the relief the cold porcelain provided him as he did his thing.
The next five hours saw me calling every vet listed in the phonebook, before finally deciding that my city was useless and the best plan of action was to drive to my parents’ house so that El Presidente could see his regular vet.
Long story short, after examining a urine sample from my cat (the collection of which is easier said than done), the vet determined that he merely had an infection. An infection that, due to my speedy detection, merely requires two pills a day and should be gone after a week.
It may sound incredibly lame, but the best present I got for my birthday was the news that my cat was going to be fine. The flowers I got were a close second though.


Sunday Confessional

Revenge, I have learned, is far from sweet. It is bitter and saggy, and looks a lot like a shocked, naked eighty-five-year-old woman. As I stood there, on my roof, I wondered if this is how she felt every time she had looked out her kitchen window only to see my naked, white ass.
- 11/18/06

Sometimes, I truly feel that I was born to hold signs high above my head, or maybe just directly in front of me, for a living.
- 11/17/06

Later, I would realize that frantic, rough sex with a relative stranger does not make your problems disappear. Instead, it causes your period to come five days early and leaves you walking like a bow-legged cowboy for the better part of a day. The thing about one night stands is that I inevitably find myself, at the end of the night, sitting on a foreign toilet, head in my hands, wondering what the fuck I was thinking in the first place and hoping that I have enough money left in my wallet to call a cab.
- 11/14/06

As I was re-enacting a scene from Flashdance (forgetting for a moment that I have never actually seen Flashdance), naked, in my bathroom mirror, I glanced towards the window and saw my elderly neighbour staring at me with her mouth agape. I stopped for a minute, panting slightly, like a deer caught in the headlights. Then, finally, I thought "fuck it. she should be used to this by now." and continued on my adventure as a lonely steel worker whose dream it is to dance.
- 11/13/06

I am chasing the dog around the house, with a straw stuck up either nostril, when the doorbell rings. I pause, briefly, to consider who it might be. I am generally so content being a hermit that I sometimes forget I have friends.
- 11/11/06

"But why would someone name a secret crime organization 'the Foot'? It does not sound the least bit intimidating." I whined.
"You are just complaining because you dislike feet in general. Be quiet and watch the movie." She told me sternly.
And she was right, I do dislike feet in general.
- 11/09/06

No matter what any one else may tell you, the grapevine is an acceptable move to bust out at the bar.
- 11/04/06


Monday Night Phone Conversation

"I am considering naming one of my children after a sexually transmitted disease. What do you think?"
"Megan. You cannot do that. You cannot even joke about that."
"Why not? I am thinking Gonorrhea. It has character. It is a strong name."
"You cannot name your child Gonorrhea. That is not even a pretty sounding STD."
"Well, I can't very well name a child "the clap" now, can I? What about Syphilis?"
"That could work. You could call it Philis for short."
"And its middle name will be Viral Herpes. Philis Vi, we will call it."
"That does not sound like such a terrible name, although she will still grow up hating you."
"Who said it was going to be a girl?"
"I just assumed. I mean - wow. A boy? Really? That poor child. What will you do if he ever asks you why you chose to name him that?"
"That is easy. I will just sit him down and say 'well, son, you weren't the only surprise mommy got that night.'"



- A trailer somewhere in Florida. We were outside, playing on the front step, trying to catch lizards as they hurried by. Finally, my father, plastic cup in hand, captured one for us. My sister picked up the cup, slowly, and peered at the lizard hidden beneath it. It was scared, too scared to contemplate escape. My sister, oblivious to the creature’s terror, slowly took hold of its tail and lifted it closer to her face for further inspection. She sat there, staring at it, for several seconds. And then the lizard dropped its tail and made its escape. Still holding the discarded tail, and screaming at the top of her lungs, my sister learned that there are better places to hold a lizard than by the tail.

- In the middle of the night, on a hill that overlooked the entire city. We had diet Pepsi and fireworks. Several cars were parked behind us, filled with lovers and stoners, as we celebrated our country. We shook the pop cans and then opened them, releasing a sticky deluge upon us. The flashing blue and red lights alerted us to the presence of a patrol car. A uniform-clad officer slowly stepped out; his face gave no indication as to what his intentions were. Was it illegal to set off fireworks, unauthorized, on public property? Probably, but the officer only wanted to know if alcohol had been thrown into the mix. We assured him it had not, and, with a smile, he got back into his car and drove off into the night. We all burst into laughter, and then continuing on with our pyrotechnic display.

- On a bed, in a dark room, I laid and watched him. I'd always thought it slightly creepy to watch someone as they slept, but I was beginning to understand the appeal. He looked so innocent, his face relaxed in slumber. I took my finger and ran it slowly over the hair of his eyebrow. I remember thinking that I would be very sad when this all ended.

- Panic. I ran across the dam, frantically looking over each side. I saw him there, twenty feet below, sitting in a puddle. He was crying, but looked to be unhurt. It took me seconds to get to him. "Are you okay?" I asked, as I ran my hands over his head, arms and legs, checking for damage. I couldn't understand his response through his hitching sobs. I scooped him up into my arms and carried him back up the hill to my grandparents' waiting van. My grandfather looked helpless. He'd been too slow and too stiff to make it down the hill before I did. "He is okay." I told him, as I loaded my brother into the van.
Later on, we would laugh about this.


Unfinished Thoughts

"I miss you." his voice echos through the phone. I nod for several seconds before realizing how ridiculous an action it is.
"I miss you, too." I whisper.
"You do?" He asks, sounding almost shocked. "You mean you haven't found another guy to take my place yet?"
His words sound harsh. Did he mean for them to? I decide to ignore his tone.
"Of course not. I am not looking for anyone to take your place." I tell him. "The position is already full." But what that position entails is questionable, to say the least.
A barely audible "I'm sorry" is his response. The funny thing is that he does not sound sorry at all. He wanted to upset me. I guess I should have been expecting this. "I'm not sure how to talk to you anymore." He confesses after several minutes.
I am taken aback by this. Shocked into silence, though I probably shouldn't be. "I'm still me." I tell him. "It's still just me."
I close my eyes and rub my forehead. It is incredibly saddening to think that the loss of a physical relationship is leading to the loss of an emotional one.
"How am I supposed to react to you? What kind of things am I supposed to tell you now? Where do I stop myself?" He says all at once. "All I think about is how I'm not supposed touch you or kiss you anymore."
And now it is me who does not know what to say to him.
- 10/18/06 5:06 AM

All I can think about is chocolate. Sweet, sweet chocolate. Chocolate cake. Chocolate mousse. Hot chocolate. I am not going to be picky about what kind of chocolate. All I know is that I am probably going to die in the next five minutes due to lack of chocolate.
- 10/19/06 1:37 AM

Last week, I ran out of food around the same time I ran out of motivation to do anything. All that was left, between my fridge and my freezer, was some daiquiri mix, an egg, and a container of margarine. I didn't want to eat the egg because it had been in there since the summer and the tub of margarine was obviously out of question as a meal, so I did what I had to do. I made daiquiris. One thing I learned: The more daiquiris you have, the less hungry you get.
- 10/23/06 1:53 PM

Each time I drive in my car, my turns are emphasized by the crashing of weights in the back. A few weeks ago, I had the wonderful idea to start doing exercises that involved lifting a small amount of weight by way of barbell. Shortly after this idea, I drove out to a fitness store and purchased a barbell set so that I could put my plan into action. I know what you are thinking.. You're thinking that the weights have just sat in my car the entire time since I bought them, but that is just not true. They have sat in my car ALMOST the entire time since I bought them. Briefly, I took them out of my car when I was at my parents house and used them roughly five times before it was time to pack them back into my car and head home. And, even though I have been home for almost two weeks, that is where they have stayed ever since. Each day, I back my car into my driveway on the off chance that I might be inclined to take them out, but each day I find another reason to leave them there. After all, they are heavy. You are supposed to work up to that kind of weight, right? And it would be ridiculous just to bring in each weight individually, not to mention time consuming.
- 10/24/06 5:39 PM

Sex in the woods is not as hot as some might think it is. It is full of mosquito bites and unidentifiable decaying organic material in your hair. There is dirt, and there are bugs. There's poison ivy, not to mention slugs. There are sticks and rocks, and pieces of glass. And, if you're not careful, things get wedged in places that they were never intended to go.
There are also animals.
Raccoons. Deer. Snakes. Coyotes. Skunks. Squirrels. Possums. Porcupines. Beavers. Moose. Bears. Dinosaurs.
- 10/28/06 2:18 PM

It doesn't matter what you've seen in the movies, fire departments do not get cats down from dangerously high places. Instead of helping, they will refer you to the Humane Society. What they will fail to tell you is that the Humane Society closes at 6 pm, so you are pretty much shit out of luck.
- 10/31/06 5:49 AM


Save(d) As Draft(s)

With only one eye opened, I stumbled to the bathroom. It's common knowledge that you're not officially awake until you've opened up both eyes. And if it wasn't common knowledge before it is now because I just told you.
- 10/01/2006

I patted the turkey, soothingly, and began to reassure it as I inserted my right hand into its rectum. "This is a first for both of us." I told it. I'd insisted on buying a turkey that provided me with a neat little package full of internal organs, but immediately, upon pulling the package out, I realized that I had made a big mistake.
- 10/03/2006

The best way to prepare a meal is to start by igniting the wrong burner on your stove top so that you set a plastic bag on fire in the process.
- 10/05/2006

I can't remember the last time that I was truly happy. I can't remember the last time I felt anything but indifference. If I could, I would stay in my bed all day long, just laying there. My bed is warm, it is comfortable, and in my bed I don't have to wonder why it is that I've forgotten what happy feels like.
I am not disappointed with my life. I am not disappointed with myself. I don't feel depressed. I just don't feel happy. Is that normal? Is that a regular way to feel? I tell people I'm happy. I laugh, I smile, I pretend that everything is exactly the way I want it to be. I keep hoping that one day I will wake-up and it will be. But it already is. Things are progressing just as I'd always planned them to, just as I'd always hoped for them to. So why do I feel so dispassionate? Why do I feel so apathetic?
- 10/14/2006

The song in my head keeps skipping. Three words repeating over and over again. Endlessly. Not even significant words. Not even for any reason, except maybe that they are repeated a few times in the song. I never get through the whole song on my own. I can never make it past those three words. It's a shame too, it really is. My favorite part of the song comes right after those words.
- 10/16/2006

"What is that noise? Are you peeing?" Her disembodied voice asks over the phone. Busted, I think to myself as I try to come up with something to say that will make the moment slightly less awkward.
All I can come up with is 'Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches.' So I say that.
"I don't understand you. You won't eat while talking on the phone because it embarrasses you, and yet you have no problem going to the bathroom."
"I know, that is weird." I agree.
- 10/20/2006

My bed smells like beer, which isn't all that surprising considering I spilled almost an entire bottle of beer on it. For some reason, distracted by my enthusiasm to create a scary Halloween tape made up almost entirely of the dog groaning, I decided that the bed was a great place to leave my beer while I went to do something else. It wasn't though.
- 10/21/2006


Very serious problem

I am at my parents house this week and I have already run out of clean underwear. Where did all the underwear I packed go? I counted each pair I put in, there were ten. And yet, six days into my visit there is no more underwear. This poses a big problem for me because I like to pass my time alone each day, when everyone else is at work or school, dancing in my underwear around the house. How can I dance around in my underwear if there is no more underwear to dance around in?


Reflections on fisting poultry

As I stuck my gloved hand into the body cavity of the ten pound turkey, I thought to myself 'How did I get here?'


Sleeping arrangements

The President is lounging across my legs as I type this. I should probably also mention that I am laying down across my bed. While, these days, we seem to be able to share a bed without too many problems, this wasn't always the case. For the first month after I moved into my house, without fail, every night I would awaken to a thump. For the longest time I could not figure out what the source of the thump was. I would look around my room, see nothing out of the ordinary, and fall back to sleep. After a while, it became apparent that I was to blame for the noise. More specifically, the thump was caused when I would move my legs, in my sleep, and knock the President off the bed and onto the floor. It made me laugh, but I also felt a little bad for the poor cat. I would imagine that getting knocked off a bed while you're sleeping is a pretty big piss off. Sometimes I am not even sleeping and I just accidentally fall out of bed (because I am borderline retarded) and that pisses me off. Especially when it happens more than once in the span of half of an hour.
To cut a pointless story slightly shorter, I have yet to determine whether I have become a less active sleeper, or if the President has just learned to beware of my flailing legs (and boy do those legs love to flail). I suspect that it is the former and not the latter. I base this suspicion on the fact that the President, without fail, falls asleep every night laying across my legs.

In other news, Stephen Harper (my pleco, not the Prime Minister of Canada) has died. I feel bad because it took me three days to notice. I just thought he was sleeping... Until I noticed that his eyes had turned white and there was slime forming around his body. That means I only have one fish left, Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note.


Snippets of Life

"Baby puppy!" I yelled, as I barreled in through the door. The fur ball that greeted me was much bigger than the one I remembered leaving a few weeks before. His whole back end was wagging with excitement as he bounded around my feet, alternately licking my toes and the floor. I dropped what I was carrying (read: the cat) and swept up the puppy in my arms. He immediately licked my face, and then proceeded to bite my nose. "Ow!" I exclaimed.
"Love hurts." my mother said, patting my back and taking the puppy from my arms.
September 20th, 10:32 PM

Just once in my life I would like to feel like the center of the universe. I want to feel like nothing I do is wrong.
How did I get here? Where exactly did my life veer off the path I'd always seen ahead of myself. When did I become this person I am today? How did this happen? How did all this happen? Where did all those people go, the ones I was so sure of, the ones I thought would be in my life forever? Where are they now? When did we drift so far apart? When did they become anything less than intrinsic to my existence? When did I become so unsure of things? When did I become so unsure of myself?
September 21st, 1:03 AM

I am the antithesis of sexy. With my nose bright red, and my nostrils glistening with just a hint of snot, I lay across the bed and try to look seductive. A few scented candles are lit, and used tissues are scattered about the room. I am trying to create a certain atmosphere. I call it "the sickly brothel". Just as I am about to speak, I begin to cough so hard that my eyes tear up and I can barely breathe.
"Are you okay?" He asks, moving to my side and smoothing my hair away from my face. I nod, still trying expel a lung from my body, and wave him off. Earlier in the day, I had decided to photograph and catalogue everything that came out of my lungs. I don't tell him that, of course. I don't want to spoil the mood. I make a mental note to break out the camera as soon as he leaves. When my fit subsides, I look deeply into his eyes and proceed to fight for my cause.
"Baby," I sigh. "I'm not that sick. Really." If my words didn't sound so rough and nasally, I might even believe what I was saying.
"You look sick, and you just called me 'Baby'. You are, at the very least, feverish." It's true. I don't do pet names.
"It is so cold." I say, trying a new tactic. "Why don't we get under the covers and try to generate some body heat." I say suggestively, and then add a wink. And that is when I realize that I have sunk to a new low.
September 25th, 10:43 PM

My dog snores. Loudly. I think he may also suffer from sleep apnea. And every so often, just for good measure, he starts barking. All in his sleep. It could be worse, I tell myself. He could be gassy too. But, luckily, the dog seems to save his gas these days for trips to my parents house. The president, on the other hand, totally farted while sleeping on my bed yesterday. I had never heard a cat fart before, and I think it was something that I could have lived the rest of my life without experiencing.
September 28th, 3:52 AM


But that's probably just because I am a bad person

I have been blowing my nose non-stop, it would seem. And each time, after I blow my nose, for some inexplicable reason, I look at the tissues to see what exactly has come out of my nose. I've been expecting a small elephant, or, at the very least, a pea or something. I don't recall ever having stuck peas up my nose (or an elephant for that matter), but that doesn't mean someone couldn't have stuck something up there while I was sleeping. I know that I would probably try to stick peas up someone's nose while they were sleeping if peas were readily available to me at that exact moment.


Things to do on a Monday night

Pelvis thrust out in front of him, we all sat quietly staring at the male pornstar on the television.
"He was married for four years? I feel sorry for his wife." one of us said.
"He has a kid, too. That baby probably walked out of her vagina. She probably sighed with relief and said 'Is that it? I thought it would be bigger.'" someone else joked.
It was 43 minutes of rumination in regards to all things pornographic. And nudity. It was definitely 43 minutes of nudity.
It taught us many new words, such as fucktify, and entertained us with endless amusing, quotable phrases (i.e. "I had porn fever!"). In the days following, we would interject these beautiful quotes into our every day lives.
"Everyone fucks somebody to get ahead in this world." I would tell them. "I just do it on film."


Weddings are awesome

The Good Times Fishing and Hunting Club is ripe with the smell of pot. A woman in her late fifties, whom I have never seen before in my life, cries at the indignity of my parents' decision to cut my sister off after she'd fallen up a small set of stairs in her haste to get to the dance floor. "Megan! Megan!" the lady cries. "Megan! I saw that step jump out at her! There was nothing she could have done!" she explains. All I can do is nod in agreement and wonder how she knows my name.
My second cousin looks like he belongs in ZZ Top - only the British version (whatever that means). He sits at our table discussing the complexities of the universe, or maybe he is just talking about nearly forgetting to walk his daughter down the aisle. I am too drunk to pay attention to any one conversation for more than a few minutes. By this point in time I have imbibed enough cheap sparkling wine for three people and show no sign of stopping any time soon. I stare at the centerpiece on the table, a live Siamese Fighting Fish swimming in a small bowl, and silently debate the pros and cons of getting up to go use the washroom.
Suddenly, I am pushed and pulled up the small set of stairs and to a clearing in the middle of the dance floor. My sister stands next to me, bracing one arm against a table to ensure she remains standing. "Everybody be quiet!" Someone yells, "The bride is about to toss her bouquet." Oh. So that is what I am doing here. There are six of us in total, and I am by far the tallest. Before I even have time to blink, let alone move, it is over and my thirteen-year-old cousin has come out the victor, broken arm be damned. I guess I will not get married this year.
"Oh no!" my sister cries. "We are going to be single forever!" And she disappears back down the stairs in search of my parents to break the news to them.
A small chocolate fountain sits proudly in the middle of a small buffet table. Earlier on in the evening, the chocolate had flowed smoothly from one tier to another. Now it falls in giant glops, when it decides to fall at all. My parents must notice this too because they suddenly decide that it is time to pack us all up and take us home. Before leaving, we all scoop up a fish-centerpiece to take home with us.
Later on, in the car, we are all yelling. "Coco Chanel is a girl's name!" my sister exclaims. "You cannot name your fish Coco Chanel because he is a boy."
"I do not let stereotypical gender roles dictate my life, nor the life of Coco Chanel. Coco Chanel is free to be who he wants to be and free to love whoever he wants to love. I will not let a group of elderly, sexually repressed people decide what is right or wrong for Coco Chanel. Do you hear that Coco Chanel?" I slur, tapping the glass vase in which my prized fish swims, oblivious to the battle taking place outside of his few inches of water.
I wake-up this morning and briefly wonder why there is a fish bowl sitting on top of my dresser. It only takes me a few seconds before I remember the events of the night before. I smile at Coco Channel and tell him that we will be life long friends before I make my way out of my bedroom to start my day.


I love you too

There are few times in your life when the magnitude of a friendship is given the opportunity to overwhelm you. I’ve experienced three in my life. A shoulder to cry on in a time of crisis, a surprise I never saw coming, and this, an email:
Hi meegan,
Im just wondering if your free tomorrow(Friday), and if you are im wondering if you would like to help me move?
Let me know either way, if its a yes, ill give you head and if's its a no, you still get head but i may or may not try.
Talk to you later,

It may seem unimportant, silly even, hardly life changing. It is though. It is the small things that are most meaningful, not the grand gestures or the grand declarations. It’s the things that we realize we’ve taken for granted all along when they’re suddenly not there anymore.
I’ve taken you granted before, and I will surely take you for granted again, but I want you to know that right now I know exactly how lucky I am to have you in my life. Especially because of your false promises to perform oral sex on me even if I don’t help you move.


"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land

His name is Tennyson, and he is my parents new dog.



I know that it's a ridiculous thought, but sometimes when the dog is barking, and I am yelling at him to stop, I worry that maybe it is like in 101 Dalmations and he has an important message to convey to the other dogs. And to be honest, I really wouldn't mind if 99 puppies came to crash in my backyard.


It's not junk anymore!

Late at night, when I'm bored and trying to be quiet, I reply to junk mail.
Dear Kevin,
Good day to you, too!
I actually have been thinking about going on vacation, getting a new car, AND that new TV and computer that I've been thinking about (but couldn't because I cannot make ends meet and those obligations are piling up), thank you for asking. I appreciate you saying that you can get my life back on track, but I feel, at this point in time, that my life is generally where I would like it to be. I am a student, with a mortgage, nobody expects me to have money. But thanks anyway, and might I suggest that you spell-check your spam?

Replying to spam both gives me something to occupy my time, and allows me to pretend (for a few minutes at least) that I receive hundreds of e-mails a day from people who want nothing but to help me or do me. So many people seem to be concerned about my financial situation, and some merely want to ask questions about my social life. Gail wanted to ensure I am happy, or at least that is what I gathered as she gave me several price listings for various anti-depressants. Some e-mails just keep rubbing it in that I was born a girl and thus cannot write my name in the snow while urinating (at least not with ease).

Dear Beck,
Let me start this e-mail by saying that I think you are slightly confused. While I appreciate the trouble you have taken to put together an e-mail with so much information about erectile difficulties and having a "stronger ejaculation", I feel I should probably tell you that it is physically impossible for me sustain an erection (unless by erection you mean building) as I do not actually have a penis of my own. And while I am sure having a stronger ejaculation would be lovely, unless you are referring to female ejaculation, I fear that I am incapable of that as well.
Again, thank you for all the trouble you have gone through and if I do meet a man who would like better erections and stronger ejaculations I will be sure to send him to the website address you so helpfully gave to me.
Have a wonderful day,


Now I only need a fish pond

My sister gets belligerent when she is drunk. I get overly ambitious.
"Come with me!" I shouted to my brother. "We must find rocks!"
"For what?" He asked, as he pried his body reluctantly away from its resting place on my leather couch.
"My pond." I sighed, exasperated.
"But you do not have a pond."
"Exactly. That is why I need the rocks," I yelled behind me as I made my way out the front door, the screen door producing a loud SMACK as it shut behind me. I bounded around the side of the house and down a small hill towards a fenced off area where the corporation that is the city was digging up the same bridge it had been digging up all summer. I looked around, in the moonlight, for anything that sparkled. I needed sparkly rocks for my pond.
"So what are we doing?" my brother asked when he finally caught up.
"We are finding rocks," I told him.
"I gathered that much, but are we looking for just any rocks or a specific kind of rock?"
I took a long, slow sip of my margarita (p.s. I brought a glass full of my favorite tequila infused drink with me) and deliberated his question.
"Yes. We are looking for granite," I replied. "Basically, any rocks you see that sparkle are granite. I am just looking for the ones that sparkle the most."
Thirty minutes and fifty ridiculously heavy stones later, my brother and I were finished seeking retribution for the extra gas money the city had cost me with the detour the non-existent bridge forced me to take. The fruition of our labour now lay in a giant pile in front of my house, sparkling in the twilight for all the world to see.. but hopefully not the city workers who will be doing more construction first thing tomorrow morning.


Sometimes I call her "mini-me"

She informed me, with a less than thrilled look on her face, that in the middle of her pap smear, the doctor had paused to ask her how I was doing.
"Are you mostly upset because this isn't the first time someone has asked you that when they've been in the vicinity of your cooter?" I asked her.
"Wow, you are so funny." she said flatly. "I just thought that there were more appropriate times for him to ask how you are doing."
"So you are telling me that, generally, you do not like it when people are touching your reproductive areas and thinking of me?" I questioned.
"Yes. That is what I am saying." she said, as she narrowed her eyes at me.
"It is not my fault that this keeps happening to you. I will try not to be so lovable. It is not my fault that I have the face of an angel." I paused. "So did anything else eventful happen at your physical?" I wondered aloud.
"Yes!" She beamed. "We determined that I am actually 5'3", not 5'2" like I had thought."
"That means nothing coming from the same doctor who told me that he would allow me to shrink a 1/4 of an inch so that I could be 5'11" and 1/2 instead of 5'11" and 3/4."
"You are raining on my parade." she said.
"You should have brought an umbrella." I told her.


It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it.

I've spent the past three hours at my fathers office and have officially taken care of the ass photocopying/breast photocopying/face photocopying requirements of the company for the week. I've also taken care of the required in-office dancing, as well as Frisbee playing. And just so that no one could say that I wasn't really working, I sat down in my father's swivel chair and spun around for a couple of minutes.


Note to Self: Koalas are slutty

Did you know that animals could get the clap? I am going to assume you didn't because I somehow doubt that animals with chlamydia come up too frequently in everyday conversation (for most people). I, however, am going to start talking about std infected animals all the time from now on.
So how did I find out animals can get chlamydia? The answer is simple: One gave it to me. No, I'm just kidding, partly. It is just one of the many wonderful things that Animal Planet has taught me. My three favorite television stations ever are The Learning Channel, The Discovery Channel, and Animal Planet. I think the world is a better place because they exist, and because they have shows about puppies and babies.
And assuming you clicked on the above hyperlink, how much would it suck to be the model they used on the cdc's chlamydia page? It certainly wouldn't make your social life thrive, one would think.


What a trip

I was amazed by perspective. Astounded how all these different objects came together to create this amazing 3-D image I was looking at. It blew me away. How could this be? How had I never realized before that looking at shit was this awesome?! It was then that I became aware of my bladder and noted that I had to pee. I sat my drink down on the lawn and wandered inside to the bathroom. While doing my thing on the toilet, I began to look around. Did you ever realize how neat toilet paper is? And tiles.. Tiles are great! Don't even get me started on wallpaper. I could have stared at the wallpaper for hours, and in all reality did.
"Your bathroom is so much fun," I told him when I got back. "You should totally go in there."
He was staring at the fence and didn't hear me at first. "My bathroom is not interesting, Meegan. It is just a bathroom," He said solemnly.
"No, I think it has something to do with the fact that our pupils are so dilated. It's the bright lights and the mirrors. It's everything," I explained. "What is this in my drink? Is that a bug? It looks like a monster," I said, handing it over to him for closer inspection.
"I think it is a moth," He told me, looking scared. "No, wait. It is an earwig," He finally decided.
"What would you do if I just kept drinking my drink anyway. Would you still be my friend?" I asked, completely serious.
"I would high five you," He told me.
"Why the hell would you high five me for eating a bug? That's gross."
"Well, what would you want me to do?" He asked, and I poured out my drink.
"Do you want to know why I just poured that out?" I asked, and he nodded in response. "I poured it out because I was worried that I might get to the point where ingesting an earwig might seem like a good idea." He nodded again and I could tell that he knew exactly what I meant.
"I was just thinking," he said quietly, "that if anybody inside looked out of that window, they would think I was having the worst party ever." We both dissolved into giggles. "It's true though!" he exclaimed. "Only I was also just thinking that I am having so much fun."
He was right. If anyone had looked out the kitchen window they would have felt sorry for him. Just two people, sitting on broken chairs, listening to awkward music on the radio, not even talking. "Do you see that tree?" he asked me. "I was just looking at it, and I was just seeing it. Like, I saw it."
"Wait a minute," I braced my arm on his shoulder, "let me get this straight. You were looking at the tree, and you saw the tree? No, that is impossible." I said, shaking my head. I was mocking him, but he didn't seem to realize that.
"Yeah. I was looking at the tree and then all of a sudden I saw this face. Do you see that face?" He pointed and we both looked up at the tree.
"No, I just see leaves," I told him honestly.
We sat in silence for several minutes as the Barenaked Ladies version of "Lover's in a Dangerous Time" played on the radio. I furrowed my brows and tried to figure out if I really saw people crossing the street, or if I was hallucinating.
"I always keep looking back at that wall, and then at you. And then you and the wall merge, and it blows my mind. And it anchors me. What do you keep looking at?"
"Nothing really. No, everything. It's like I want to look at everything, but I know there's not enough time so I want to remember every last detail of what I am looking at." If I'd been completely honest with him I would have also mentioned that I kept looking at my hands and feet to make sure I had the right number of toes and fingers. I counted over and over again and always came up with ten, but it still didn't look right. I was worried that all of a sudden I would look down and there would be six fingers on one hand.
We heard his parents saying goodbye to some of their friends, whom had come over to play poker, and he jumped up and raced towards the front yard to see what was going on.
"I wonder what is wrong," he said, concern written on his face.
"I don't think anything is wrong," I told him. "Don't people ever just leave your house because they are going home for the evening?" Evidently the answer to that question was 'no'.
"Do you ever look at the shadows and then think that they are coming alive? Like they're moving and then they become this person?" He asked, sitting back down beside me.
"No, you're on your own," I replied, but his attention was already somewhere else.
"Do you see that? In the bushes? I think it is my gray cat friend."
"Um, I think that is a raccoon." But it was too late because he'd already hopped up and rushed over to the hole in the fence.
"Cat friend," he called, every so often making clicking and cooing sounds in an attempt to lure whatever animal it was closer to him. "Have I told you about my gray cat friend, Meegan?" he asked, and then proceeded to tell me a story about his stinky room and his conversations with a cat. At one point in time, he told me that his gray cat friend was going out to pick up some "East Coast hunnies".
"Did you really just say that? Did you really just try to tell me that a) you had an actual conversation with a cat, and b) that the cat used the term 'East Coast Hunnies'?"
"Hey, they were his words, not mine. Get off my back."
As the evening wore down, it suddenly became apparent that I had not kept track of how much alcohol I'd been consuming. Later on I would have my own conversation with a toilet (while marveling at the wonders of the bathroom), though I did not vomit, before stumbling downstairs with the intention of falling asleep on the couch.
"Wait a minute. Where did the blankets go?" I asked him.
"They are on the couch," He replied.
"I am on the couch and there are no blankets here," I sighed.
"They are pink, Meegan, just look for pink blankets," he told me, sighing at what he perceived to be my stupidity.
"But there is no pink anywhere. Did you sister take the blankets? I had two here. One was purple. Do you see purple anywhere?"
"Just come sleep in my room. We're friends. We can keep the door open and you can keep your pants on."
"Jeez, thanks," I said, narrowing my eyes at him - which he completely missed in the darkness of the basement. "I am not sleeping in your bedroom. Did you not hear your sister ask me over and over again if I was your new girlfriend and if we were having a sleepover? If I sleep in your room she will conclude that I was lying." We both turned to look at his 11-year-old sister and her friend who had camped out on the floor just outside of his bedroom door. She seemed unconvinced when I'd told her earlier on that evening that I was going to sleep on the couch, and so she continued to ask me again every fifteen minutes until she and her friend finally passed out. "I am sleeping out here because they are sleeping out here to see where I will sleep. I do not need blankets anyway - and I don't need pillows either. I will just sleep out here like this. You just go to sleep now. And stop banging every girl you meet so that your family does not seem so shocked every time I explain to them that we are not sleeping together. "
"Okay," he said, looking slightly skeptical of my assurances, as if trying to determine if I was testing him in some way. After several more minutes, he disappeared into his room and I rolled over on to my stomach and prepared to settle in for the night.
As I lay there, on the couch, on the verge of unconsciousness, I felt something drop over me. It wasn't until I heard a whispered "Sweet dreams, Meegan." that I realized it was a blanket and that it was actually being tucked in around me. I woke-up this morning with a headache and morning breath that would have caused plants to wilt and die. I quietly gathered my things, and then stepped on his little sister (and her friend, just for good measure) as I tried to sneak quietly towards the stairs.


It seems so long ago

I found these pictures of the dog on a cd that was kicking around my room. I barely remember him being a puppy. I remember even less of his adolescent years, probably because I'd abandoned him at my parents house and fled for school. Considering how many pictures I now have of my animals, you'd think I would have taken more of them when they were babies.


Realistically they will learn nothing

I watched quietly as two punk-assed kids took sticks and wrote their names in the freshly poured sidewalk in front of my house. MY sidewalk. They marred its beautiful, virgin surface with their names followed by "bitch".. you know.. because they're just that cool. So cool, in fact, that they feel the need to deface city property so that they can take their friends by it and show them exactly how cool they are. If a sidewalk says your name then you must be cool, right?
I decided to take it upon myself to teach them a lesson. I waited until they had left and then proceeded to write "sucks" underneath their names. It was not one of my most mature moments, but I still stand by my actions. Now when they come back - friends in tow - to show off their work, they will find my special gift to them. And maybe, just maybe they will take a lesson away with them.
So in closing, don't deface sidewalks. You make them less aesthetically pleasing. It ruins them. And if you do decide to deface sidewalks, make damn sure to stay next to that sidewalk until the cement dries or else....



I sleep on two single mattresses that have had their separate frames pushed together, in a room with no windows that seems to repel any and all forms of heat. The dog has been sharing my bed this week. He sticks to one of the single mattress, and I the other. Sometimes I wake-up, groggy, and mistakenly think that I have brought home a severely hairy man the night before. I could do worse, I suppose.
The dog sleeps with his head on a pillow, his body snuggled under half of my duvet, and his front paws resting just below his chin. He doesn't snore. He doesn't smell too bad. He is, arguably, one of the better bed mates I have had.
He is, oddly enough, not the only one to have woken me up by licking my face.


To whom it may concern,

I don't miss you more today than I do any other day. If there is any difference it is only because I know I am supposed to be more aware of you absence from my life on this day. Sometimes I forget that you are gone. I go to say something about you, and then realize my mistake.
There were times when I used to sob quietly in my bed at night, muffling the sound of my anguish so that no one would hear my pain. I don't cry for you anymore, but that doesn't mean I miss you any less. I never realized how much of a role you played in my life until you weren't there to play it anymore. There are so many things I wish you could be around to witness. I wanted you to see the person I was becoming. I wanted you to be proud of the person I was becoming. I wanted you to lecture the first boy I brought home, when I decided I finally liked one enough to bring home. I wanted to roll my eyes as you gave him the third degree, and disclosed information about me that caused me to turn red with embarrassment.
I worry that I'll forget the sound of your voice, or the way you smelled. That I won't always be able to close my eyes and see your faces smiling back at me. I think back to all the times I saw your name on the display as the phone rang and decided just to let the machine get it so that I didn't have to deal with any inane conversation. "If I'd only known," I think "I would have answered. I would have answered every question you posed and I would have done it gladly." There are so many "if only"s now when it comes to you. If only I'd know that I would never get the chance to see your faces again. If only I'd known that I'd never hear you say my name another time. If only I'd known that it was the last time I'd be able to wrap my arms around you. I would have memorized the details of your faces. I would have listened just a little bit better. I would have held on just a little bit longer. I would have held you just a little bit tighter. I would have told you so many things that I never got to tell you, that I thought I had more time to tell you.
I'm a hypocrite, you know. I've judged other people for their grief, and yet I am still not finished dealing with mine. I have come to learn that loss is loss, no matter what you lose. Grief is grief, no matter what you're grieving for. And pain is pain, no matter where it hurts. You can't say that someone else's pain is better or worse than your own. It's different. It's all different, and it cannot be so easily classified as to label it better or worse.
I lied when I said I don't cry for you anymore. In unguarded moments, my tears catch me by surprise. Three years feels like forever and yet like no time at all. I don't miss you more today than I do any other day, but I find my eyes red and puffy all the same.


Hair of the dog, literally

Yesterday I went to take my dog for a walk, but then last minute ended up shaving off half of his fur. You may be wondering how someone can intend to take their dog for a walk and then get so off track that they then shave their dog. I can't really tell you how it happened. All I know is that he'd been looking overheated since the hot weather set in and I'd been considering shaving him for a while. One thing I can tell you is that I do not have a career as a dog groomer in my future, and that breaks my heart. My dog sat there for a long time and let me take the shears and shave off a bag full of hair from his back and sides, but when I made a move to do his stomach he got more than a little antsy. 'No problem.' I thought, and moved to do his chest. No dice. He decided his hair cut was over and I decided that we would pick up where we left off sometimes later.

He really doesn't look all that terrible, but my brother keeps telling me that I have given him a dog mullet. Business up front, party in the back? I think so.


Eau de Volkswagen

I drive it and I feel at ease. Nothing is wrong with the world because we are together, even if the brakes selectively work. I roll my windows down and let the wind blow my hair out of my elastic and into my face. Each time I slow down, the recently freed stray hairs flop down over my face and I try, in vain, to brush them aside. Sometimes I wonder how a vehicle can seem to have a personality of its own. I have thought, on more than one occassion, that I love my van more than I love most people. Sure, sometimes it may seem like the van wants to kill me, but it is those moments when the brakes are working and my gear shifting seems perfect, so smooth, that I live for.
I sometimes think about selling it. Not often, but enough. Sometimes I think that the money that van would bring me would do a lot to ease my financial burdens. I couldn't sell it though, it would almost be like seriously considering selling my dog. I am convinced that no one would appreciate the dog or that van the way I do. No one could love them as much as I do. They are part of my family. Me, a dog, a retarded cat, and a 30-year-old van. Most people, when dreaming of the summer, think of the sweet smell of flowers in bloom, or the smell of fresh cut grass. Not me. I dream of the smell of gasoline on my clothes. No matter how much perfume I may pour on myself, every time I drive that van I smell like gasoline for a week. I wouldn't trade that smell for anything.


He's working his way up to those

Late night, long distance car rides inspire secret confessions.
"I have been to over six Backstreet Boys concerts." A friend told me as we discussed what the appeal of boy bands had been in the first place.
"I never saw the Backstreet Boys in concert." I told her. "But my best friend while growing-up did. She said she cried when they came out onto the stage. I laughed at her because I am sensitive like that."
I don't really have any secrets to confess. Not anything that is worth mentioning. The best I could come up with was confiding that I had taken flute lessons for 15 years. I lead a relatively tame life, there are no Backstreet Boys concerts hidden away with the skeletons in my closet. In fact, there aren't actually any skeletons in my closet, only a blow-up doll named Mr. Stud (one whom is not anatomically correct) who lost his legs in the war. He sits there, waiting. Maybe like R. Kelly, except without the golden showers for minors.


What do you want from me fish?

Months of neglect and yet Stephen Harper and Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note are still thriving.
I knew this would happen. The minute I no longer want something it seems to decide it suddenly wants me. Like Destiny's Child, my fish are survivors. They're not going to give up (what?). They're not going to stop (what?). They're going to work harder (what?).
They spend their days swimming around in circles and when I walk by they suddenly stop. Their eyes follow me, as I slowly make my way around the clutter of my bedroom, in a way that gives me goose bumps. I have started having nightmares in which Stephen Harper flings himself out of my aquarium and starts to suck my soul right out of my body. It's my own fault. All of it. I should have known better than to buy fish. I am not a fish kind of person. I like things that do exactly what I want, exactly when I want them to. The fish refuse to live when I want them to (even though I leave them inspiring notes about my love for them and desire for them to live), and then they refuse to die when I passively wish it on them (do not worry.. I still feed them and ensure their water is clean). Maybe I should place an add in the paper. You know.. One of those "free to a good home.. or someone who is hungry and is willing to eat tiny, domesticated tropical fish."


Brushing the Dog : Part One

No matter how much I vacuum, no matter how many times I sweep, my floors are constantly covered in dog hair. I knew my dog would shed when the weather got warmer, but I didn't think he would take it upon himself to lay me a carpet. So when I decided to brush the dog today I anticipated that there would be lots of hair, but I didn't really think there would literally be enough hair to create another dog.

Yet, that is exactly what the dog delivered. A pile of hair bigger than the cat. How is it that he still has any hair left? How is it that if I ran my hand over his back right this second I would still come away with more hair? It seems so unfair that there are some dogs who have no hair at all and yet the dog is walking around with enough for two (at the very least).
Basically there is still so much brushing required that I decided to take a break tonight and start fresh tomorrow. My arms are tired and the dog is about ready to smack me upside the head.


Bicycle of my Dreams

Just a subtle hint for anyone who may or may not be related to me.. Or someone who just would like to buy me stuff. I like it when people show their affection for me by buying me material things. It is the bicycle of my dreams, after all. If it were pink, it would be god sent. I love it. I want to print off a picture of it and put it under my pillow so that I will have dreams about it. As it is, I have to satisfy myself by thinking of all the awesome things I would do with it. First I would put a white basket on the front, and then a nice bell (mostly because it is law, but also because bells are awesome). And then I would take my bike and ride it every where. To school. To work. To the mall. To the houses of friends. It is the kind of bike I could ride while wearing a skirt (with a pair of bike shorts underneath for the duration of the trip, just to be safe).
It is made by this manufacturer.


Hottest Person Ever

It is past three in the morning and I am sitting in my bed, in my underwear, eating a tuna fish sandwich. On the night stand to my left sits a glass of water that has been there for at least a week. Worse than that is that sometimes, when I wake-up dazed and thirsty, I actually drink from it. On the night stand to my right there sits an empty jug of orange juice. I drained the last drops of liquid out of it a few minutes ago, and have since been staring at it as if it were the most interesting thing I have ever set my eyes on as I chew. While typing this entry with one hand, I dropped a piece of tuna into the bottomless abyss that is my cleavage. My immediate instinct was to look around me to ensure that I was in fact alone, and then dig right down there to retrieve the piece of tuna and pop it into my mouth.
It is times like these that I know without a doubt why I am still single.


How to give tours of the house you are trying to rent

Start off by telling potential renters that you are sorry the outside of the house looks "nasty". Using the word "nasty" is key. Point out how you have carelessly tossed weeds next to the flower bed and have failed to pick them up for several days now. Upon entering the front porch, explain that you have not cleaned it for a while, but that you will clean it in the near future - probably. Start the tour of the interior of the house by saying "This is hallway!" Sometimes people need to be told that they are walking in a hall, don't let the fact that blind people are usually the only ones who need to be told this deter you at all. When you walk into the living room, point out that it is the living room. Make sure that you make a few false starts before getting out any useful information. "Urg... Ummm... Eeee... There are more chairs for that table only we keep them in the basement..." When renting out rooms in a house it totally matters where you keep the additional dining room chairs. When you enter the kitchen, tell them how you make poor organizational choices, but feel that you are capable of change. Especially for them. The downstairs bathroom wows everybody, so it is very important that you somehow make it slightly less appealing. Tell potential occupants that the lady next door has seen you naked more times than your own mother. Potential occupants eat that kind of thing up. When you go upstairs, show them the computer room first in the hopes that they will fail to realize the rooms you want to rent them are probably not as big as they would like. Then quickly usher them towards the upstairs bathroom and recall the time you thought you would be totally awesome at using drywall compound to smooth out walls. Explain that using drywall compound is much harder than it looks. They will both nod in agreement. When you take them down into the basement it is important to point to the bag of garbage you have carelessly left on the floor. "It is full of dryer lint" you say (with a smile). Tell them that you are working very hard to make the basement less creepy, then tell them how when you first moved in you were sure that a serial killer had lived here right before you. When you show them the backyard you will point out all the things you have not done, as opposed to all the things that you have. Tell them they can't go in the real backyard though because you sprayed it with weed killer yesterday.
Your sparkling personality will win them over, and maybe they will also like the house (if you are lucky). They will ask you if they should leave a deposit with you, or if they should call your Dad. You tell them to call your Dad. You told your Dad earlier in the week that it was now his job to pretend he is "the man". This way if someone tries to complain to you, you will say "I do not handle this stuff, call my Dad." To officially finish up the tour, allow your dog to jump on the potential renters. People love it when strange dogs jump on them. Especially if the strange dog smells bad and may or may not have mud on his paws. Walk the potential renters back to the driveway and tell them to have a good day. People like it when you show you care.
Almost immediately, run into the house and call your father. Tell him that you are the most awesome tour guide ever and that you were the major selling point, not any of the actual house.


Or it could have been that he was afraid of the sounds I was making

I brought the karaoke machine into my room tonight instead of doing the assigned readings for my class tomorrow. I plugged the proper cords into my TV, chose a CD at random, and then sang my heart out. At one point in time I serenaded the dog with heart felt words. I grabbed hold of his chin, and put every last ounce of emotion I could muster into each word. Apparently he doesn't care that he is the wind beneath my wings.
He breaks my heart.


It's true, I am a wimp

I am sure that I've mentioned it before, but I am not particularly fond of snakes. For many years I spent my summers knee deep in shrubbery along side my sister and best friend as we made it out mission to catch as many garter snakes as possible. We'd place all the snakes we captured into a big garbage pail and then stare at them until my father would make us carry the pail down into the woods behind my house and let the snakes free. You would think that someone who is afraid of snakes would not actively go out and try to catch snakes, yet I did. But the image of twenty snakes gyrating against each other at the bottom of a garbage pail is something that I still have nightmares about.. As is the image of all those snakes slithering away as we tipped the pail onto its side and set them free (we played rock paper scissors to determine who the unfortunate soul would be that would get stuck with that task).
Snakes are everywhere. They hide under rocks, or leaves, or in piles of wood. They show up when you least expect them, and it's always sudden. There is no snake, and then there are twenty snakes in the blink of an eye. Well, maybe not twenty, but the point is they appear without warning. My family has a tendency to be careless in the summer months, every so often leaving the back door open just a crack in their comings and goings. On three separate occasions I have encountered snakes in my basement because of said carelessness. On three separate occasions I have hopped up on anything I could and have yelled for someone while pointing at the snake. Pointing clearly sends the message to the snake that I am dangerous and have found it out. Eventually either another member of my family will appear to pick the snake up and return it to the outdoors, or one of my parents' cats will corner it so that I can make my escape - backing away slowly, all the while pointing.
I point when I run into snakes outdoors, too. First I utter a surprised gasp, and then I point at the snake until it slides away. Why the pointing? I do not know. Maybe it just makes me feel better to know exactly where the snake is. Up until a few years ago (back before I had my dog), my parents had a black cocker spaniel who would pick snakes up and remove them from my path, or restrict their movement until I could get by. My dog does not care about snakes, as I found out yesterday upon meeting my first snake of the season.
"I did not know you would be out yet!" I cried at it and pointed. Instead of defending me from the terrifying snake (it was actually a very small snake, but that did not make it any less deadly... Unless you take into account the fact that it is non-venomous), my dog bounded by with a stick - actually driving the snake closer to me. Eventually my mother noticed that I was standing still and pointing at something so she took a short break from her gardening to move the snake and chastise me for being such a wimp.


It makes me hungry just thinking about it

I don't know what most people day dream about, but I day dream about making pasta. There are so many kinds of awesome pasta that I have yet to make and I spend hours a day thinking about the day(s) when I will finally make it. I dream of pasta dough rolled out into perfectly rectangular 5" x 12" sheets, ready for me to slice into the noodle of my choice. I dream of adding spinach, or basil, or some other type of herb into the dough as to infuse it with a little extra flavor (and colour). Sometimes I even go so far as to incorporate making my own sauce into the same day dream.. Other times making the sauce takes up a whole day dream on its own.
I lead a wild life.. What can I say?


The cat is almost as big as the moon

The above picture is a drawing I made of a night this past week when the President escaped through the back door and tried to run away from home. My father chased him, for a reason unbeknownst to me, and this resulted in the cat running away from me when ever I approached him. As you can see from the photo, I have horribly mutated hands and feet, beady black eyes, and was only wearing my underwear and a hooded sweatshirt and I ran down the street (apparently the cat can hop 8 foot fences..) chasing after him. This picture may also offer insight into why the cat is trying to escape into the outdoors.. it would seem as though he could actually be a raccoon.


And now I take some advil

I woke-up in my living room on the couch in nothing but my underwear. I was freezing and confused. I went to bed last night wearing a shirt with a picture of a bass jumping out of water and I am not exactly sure when I made the journey from my warm bed to the cold couch, or when exactly I decided to take off my shirt.
It took me a little while to rub the sleep from my eyes and come to my senses.
After several minutes of looking, my shirt turned up in the bottom of my shower soaking wet. Evidently I had been in such a rush to shower that I did not even bother to take off my clothes.. Which may have been for the best, otherwise I might have woken up naked on the couch in the living room.
My computer revealed a message from my brother inquiring as to why I felt the need to call him in the middle of the night to see how my dog was doing. When I closed the message window, my essay magically appeared. To my relief, I had not in attempted to edit it, or write page after page of incoherent babble. I did, however, find one new sentence at the bottom of the page.
"Cinderella is a giant asshole." it declared in bolded letters. I am not going to lie to you, as I sat there, staring at the screen, I considered using it as part of my thesis statement.


Sad but true

I still have to sing the alphabet to myself every time I need to alphabetically reference something past the letter 'p'. Seriously... I sing it to myself starting with the letter 'q'.
My goal is to one day work past this.


Preventing teenage pregnancy

I dragged my Mom down to the lake front tonight so that I could use my newly acquired tripod to take some pictures without using the flash on my camera. I'd decided the night before, driving home from the bank, that I would dedicate tonight to camera experimentation and scrubbing old wall paper paste off of the walls in my parents' kitchen. I had wanted to take awesome pictures of dirty factories that blew fire into the sky at night, but taking awesome pictures is easier said than done (sometimes) and I wasn't able to focus as well as I would have liked to. My mom sipped coffee, by my side, and humored me as I took picture after picture of blurry buildings and abandoned benches.
"Why do these cars keep driving by?" she asked me.
"Oh, I am guessing that those are just people looking to park. This is a makeout spot. People come here, up the hill down the road, the park downtown. Pretty much anywhere there is a spot to park and the least bit of seclusion. They probably keep driving away because we're out here in the light, away from the car." I explained.
During our hour long stay, many cars did a tour around the parking lot before leaving. I picked the picture above because you can see a car near the middle on the left hand side and I wanted to tell all of you that the people in that car were having sex. They were there before my mother and I arrived, and stayed (presumably) long after we left. We may not have been able to help those people, but I'd like to think that we prevented a few teenaged pregnancies tonight... Even if, realistically, those kids just went to go park somewhere further down the street.


Highway Philosopher

My dog doesn't appreciate my singing the way I feel he should. As we drive down the highway, I sing of sailors, drugs and heart break. He just stares at me blankly as his nose begins to drip. My dog gets nauseated when he's in the car and lately I have been getting the feeling that my singing does not help. At one point during the trip, I stop my singing to explain to him that Hallelujah is less about prayer and more about surrender. I use car rides to lecture to my dog about lyrics and poetry. He doesn't understand, but I don't expect him to.


Do fish get lonely?

The lone neon, Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note, is a survivor. He swims the tank in a series of jerky movements, resting every so often against the rocks at the bottom. Sometimes I can't decide if he is slowly dying, or slowly living. He must lead such a lonely life. I wonder if fish get lonely. Does he crave the contact of other fish? Does he long for a companion to live out his fish days with? Is he even a he?
Stephen Harper (my pleco) seems indifferent to the lack of life in the fish tank. He clings to the glass sides and lets the current the filter creates sway his tail ever so slightly. Every so often the neon will swim over to him, seemingly just to bask in the presence of another living thing. Does he feel an overwhelming sense of grief to be the last? Watching as his friends all fell victim to a filter with too much suction, one by one.
I can't imagine being the last. I can't imagine being that alone. I wonder if I'm not just projecting; if the fish really even cares that he is alone at all.
I think I'll buy some more fish.


Dog Park

The dog park is, not surprisingly, full of dogs. Dogs of all shapes and sizes, young and old, black, beige, brown and every colour under the sun (except hot pink). I have taken my dog to the dog park twice now. The first time he went, my dog spent 45 minutes being tag teamed by a pair of boxers. The drool was flowing free that day, as it would seem to flow free anytime dogs play. He chose to ignore my calls for most of the hour that we stayed, and I left the dog park wishing that I could have traded him for one of the better behaved dogs that were still running around jovially in the enclosure.
This time he was a changed dog. He was bombarded by four dogs upon entering the gate. He waited for me to enter first, and once he was sure that I was staying in there he decided to join me. After only a few minutes he went from cowering behind my legs to bounding around after the other dogs his size and running to his hearts content. Every few minutes he would run back towards me, stop to let me pet him, and then run back towards the group of dogs he was trying to befriend. He waited half an hour before he started to hump any of the dogs there. I think half an hour is a good time frame to wait before you try to hump people (or dogs) that you just met. Some dogs would stand there and take it, and I would end up dragging my dog off their backs and telling him to keep that sort of thing in the bedroom. Other dogs snapped at him, chasing him away as soon as he tried to mount them. "This is how he will learn not to mount other dogs." the wise lady next to me explained. "You have to let the other dogs teach him that it is not appropriate, he will catch on pretty quickly." And he did catch on, unfortunately he decided that he could still try and hump the little dogs because they were too shocked by his sudden attentions to snap back at him. Eventually he met his match, though, in a husky-like dog. My dog would mount the husky-like dog, the husky-like dog would throw him off its back and proceed to hump him... My dog would then throw the husky-like dog off his back and try to hump it again.. It went on and on and on and on. That is when I decided it was time to play with the Frisbee, and luckily my dog agreed.
I knew it was time to leave the dog park when, after playing with the Frisbee for twenty minutes, my dog chased after it and decided to lay down when he was only halfway to his goal. When I left the dog park this time I felt much better than I had before. My pants were tattooed with muddy paw prints and my sweatshirt was covered in the drool of various breeds of dogs, but I decided that my dog had earned the privilege of returning to the dog park again the next day.


On Saturdays

On Saturdays, we celebrate birthdays with loud cheers and bad music. I sit myself down on a stool in the center of the room and wonder why it is that my skirt has suddenly become so short. How did I not notice that it barely covered my ass when I tried it on in front of the mirror at my house? I tug on it, feeling self conscious, trying to pull it just a little bit lower. When that fails, I ensure that my legs are shut together so tightly that there is a chance that they may never open again.
But eventually they do open because I get up and migrate to the kitchen where various shouts of encouragement are emanating from. I peer around the fridge to see a guy with a box on his head funneling a beer. I wonder, to myself, when it was that we all became cliches. I don't mind though. I stay in the kitchen for just a little while longer. Long enough to see another guy funnel a tall boy. "You are a God!" his friends shout.
I make my way back down the hallway and around the corner to a bedroom. There is a much smaller group of people gathered here. They are discussing the Smiths, and Morrissey. I occasionally interject a few comments into the conversation, but am generally content to lean back against the wall and absorb everything around me.
Later on someone from this room will run around the house writing words on the necks of those who agree to it. "For Morrissey!" they will exclaim. The next day, the few that did agree will wish they'd thought to ask if the marker being used was permanent.
Nothing is really permanent, not even marker. This is the last year we will all be here like this. People are already packing up their belongings and getting ready to take them somewhere else, somewhere that is not this city. Next year, those of us who remain will be haunted by ghosts of the past. We'll remember the people who used to sit beside us and talk about Morrissey, the people who held the funnel high above our heads and cried out with joy as we emptied it, and the people who made us realize that the most significant parts of University are not the facts you learn, but the people you learn you can never live without. But right now we try to forget that. Thinking about the future too much only causes us to miss out on the present. And so we sit in that room just a little bit longer, trying to hold off the inevitable for as long as we can.


What ever happened to knocking?

Who needs friends when you have a neighbour who is missing his front teeth and seems oblivious to things such as over staying his welcome. No. Wait. Over staying ones welcome would imply that one was welcome in the first place. No, crazy toothless neighbour just walks into the house. Leaving the front door unlocked is welcome enough for him. Crazy toothless neighbour does endearing things like smoking in the house. Things that none of your "guests" have ever done before because most "guests" think to ask if you mind. Crazy toothless neighbour's eyes never leave your breasts while engaging in conversation, even if he is the only one doing the talking. He stares at your breasts intently, in a more than slightly unnerving way, as if they hold all the secrets of the universe. You look down at your breasts. Nope. The only thing they seem to be saying is that the house is a touch on the cold side. The dog saunters into the room and sits down for a moment, looking crazy toothless neighbour over to determine if he is a threat. He tilts his head to one side as he appraises him. Unsure, the dog decides that it is in the best interest of the household to plop himself down by your side. Crazy toothless neighbour fails to notice this ordeal, still trying to communicate telepathically with your breasts. You look down at them, once again, to see if they might have transformed into something significantly more interesting while you weren't paying attention. Nope. Still just breasts. After several more minutes (hours?) chalked full of awkwardness, crazy toothless neighbour decides it is time to leave - or at least that is what he tells your breasts right before he turns around and walks out the door. The dog trails after him, ensuring that be does not change his mind at the last minute. Once crazy toothless neighbour closes the front door behind himself, the dog turns around and stares at you, unblinking, until you hurry to the front door and turn the lock. You can't decide if crazy toothless neighbour is one of the reasons you love this city, or hate it.



Prior to reading the book "Anne of Green Gables", I had never realized that "ejaculate" (or, better yet, "ejaculated") could be used as a term of exclamation. Imagine my surprise when, upon reading the book, I found out that it was chalked full of ejaculation. One thing was ejaculated after another. It was almost tag-team ejaculation. People were ejaculating all over the place.
Now I am a fairly juvenile-minded person, and so I had a hard time not giggling when I read lines like "'Well, this is a pretty piece of business!' ejaculated Marilla." And then listening to teachers read out various other lines that also contained the word within them.
I have come to the conclusion that L.M. Montgomery merely enjoys ejaculating. I guess there is no harm in that. A little ejaculation from time never hurt anybody. It may have knocked a few people up though...


Or maybe I just have it coming...

I talk to the cat like he is a person. I've dropped the whole "Mr. President" thing, and have started to refer to him merely as "Mr. Cat". Should I feel bad because he has not served a full four years before I stripped him of his superior title? I don't know. All I know is that, when I am drunk, "Mr. President" is two syllables too many. Eventually he will answer to "Hey, Cat!" It is only a matter of time.
Each night, when I go to sleep, I wonder if this is the night when the cat will take my life when I am in REM. I watch him carefully as he lays, stretched out, at the foot of my bed... smirking. He is a cocky bastard. "Don't think I'm not watching you." I tell him, as I fluff my pillows and tuck myself in. I narrow my eyes as I stare him down and he merely stretches out even more, if that's possible, and proceeds to lick himself and purr. What an asshole. In the middle of the night, he wakes me up. He is trying to eat my face! No. Wait. He is rubbing against my face. He wants me to pet him. Why does he not want me to pet him during waking hours? Why does he wait until four in the morning to demonstrate that, not only is he aware of my existence, but he wants me to have some sort of contact with him. I think it is all part of his clever plan. Sleep deprivation. He wants to break my spirits, make me go crazy, before he takes my life. Waiting patiently at the foot of my bed for a chance to strike. I have just one thing to say to you, Mr. Cat, and that is that I have got your number. Not literally, Mr. Cat, but figuratively. I am on to your plan. I am wise to your ways. I am clearly more tired than I thought if I am actually trying to engage you in conversation through a blog entry. But seriously... I am on to you.


As my little brother watches on

Since my sister is busy in South Africa having $4,000 surgeries on her neck to determine why it has swollen up and is now causing her an excruciatingly large amount of pain, it would seem as though I have taken over her role as resident alcoholic (for as long as I am at my parents house.. Which is one more day). I'm not going to lie to you - I am drunk right now. I imbibed two and a half mickeys of rum, and then for good measure I finished off a big bottle of peach schnapps... All while my brother sat next to me watching a movie. I know. I know.. It's not healthy.. But I have a really poor justification for it all. You see, internet, I keep a certain amount of liquor at my parent's house so that it is always on hand in case I need it for something. When I came home this trip I realized that my father had been dipping into my stash of liquor. Since I had no need to take it with me back to school (I already have a full bar there just for the occasions that my friends ask me to mix them a drink), I decided that it would be a super great idea just to drink it all so that it wasn't there for him to drink. I can't really tell you why I thought this was a good idea. I can only assure you that, at the time, it seemed like a really great way to teach my father a lesson. Obviously it will teach him nothing at all, as me becoming inebriated rarely teaches anyone a lesson... Except maybe the elderly, who should learn not to be out so late or else they run the risk of being flashed. But seriously, at this point in time it would seem that driving home tomorrow may not be the best idea as a killer hangover is most certainly headed in my direction. Please forgive any spelling mistakes/things that do not make sense in the post.. I don't actually read over them when I'm sober, so editing when I am drunk is out of question.
It serves me right for getting drunk in front of my little brother...



I am an impulsive shopper, to say the least. I see things. I want things. I buy things. Or at least I used to, back in the days when I could afford to spend money. During my first year of University I decided it would be an awesome idea to buy a home pregnancy test. Why? I don't really know. I think I thought that it would be funny to have for when people went through the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. Everyone knows that people look through your stuff when they use your bathroom, so I really wanted to give them something to think about while they were in there. Later on, our collection of "stuff in medicine cabinet for shock value" grew to include a party pack of condoms and a douche. But this post is not about a giant pack of condoms, or a product to fix womanly odor problems. No. This post is about the evening I bought my home pregnancy test. I, shockingly, came up with the idea when I was looking at the display of tampons right next to the home pregnancy tests. The idea popped into my head and the next thing I knew I was scanning to see which one was the cheapest, and grabbing it off the shelf to stick in my shopping kart. Upon checking out, my friends made sure to reference the pregnancy test as many times as they could. "If you could keep your legs close this would not be a problem." one would say, while the other would nod in agreement. The checkout boy (man?) looked embarrassed, and hid the pregnancy test away in a bag as quickly as he could. I smiled to myself for some unknown reason, and entered my pin number to pay for the groceries. What I did not expect was the alarm to sound as I was leaving the store.
The mortified clerk rushed over and said to me in a hushed voice "I think it is your medicine."
"My medicine?" I questioned, and looked to my friend to see if she could offer any clarification. She shook her head, and then it dawned on me. "Oh, you mean my pregnancy test." I briefly wondered if I should take the time to explain to the clerk that a pregnancy test is not a form of medication. It does nothing to clear up a bad case of pregnancy. No matter how many times you take one, the pregnancy is not going to go away. I decided that it wasn't worth the trouble. The clerk scrambled, pregnancy test in hand, back to his checkout lane to pass it over that magical device that disables the alarm triggering tag and then hurried back to me to hand it over. "Thank you." I told him. "I've got to get home now to use my medicine." I explained, as I walked out the door.
I see the same clerk pretty much every time I go to buy groceries. His name is Corey, and since that fateful day he has even asked me out on a date. I can only assume this is because he thinks I am more likely to put out due to the whole "medicine" incident. Each time he sees me approach the check out lane, he smiles to himself. I can only hope that he never knocks a girl up because he will be awfully disappointed with the results of the "medicine".


The World is Frozen

I took my dog for a walk today and got in slightly over my head. Sometimes snow is deeper than it looks. I realized this when half of my leg suddenly disappeared into a mound of white death. The dog loved it, of course, as he was able to submerge himself almost completely in the snow. The only sign that I even actually had a dog with me was the wisp of black fur that broke through the surface of the snow, attached to a furiously wagging tail.
It was surprisingly warm out. My cheeks were still rosy, but the feeling remained in all of my extremities.
Here are some pictures I took along the way...

The last one is of the fishing shacks on the lake. There are far less this year than there were last year, but that is probably due to the fact that for the longest time the lake remained unfrozen.


"Grab hold of her ears!" I urged, "Use them to steer!"
My friends sat in front of me, working out the semantics of doubling up on a crazy carpet while laying flat on their stomachs. Somehow, hurling your body down a steep incline is oddly appealing to University students as well as young children. I stood there, freezing, watching as time and time again my friend performed increasingly complex takes on the traditional act of sledding.
"Let's go over that jump standing up on the mat while facing each other!" They would shout with glee. "Megan! Come get on this mat with us! We will do it with three people!" Each time I would shake my head and decline their offer. I have found that I can only tempt fate so far before it rears its angry head to bite me in the ass. So I stood there and watched in awe, all the while losing more and more feeling in my extremities, at the sheer happiness that exuded from my companions.
It is easy to forget what a joy being alive is. Sometimes it takes hurling yourself down a hill before you remember all that sage-like knowledge you once possessed as a child. Sometimes you just have to forget about mid-terms.. or papers.. or bills.. or mortgages and just risk dying a little so that you can remember how to live.



My dog went on a bender this weekend and was so hungover this morning that he had to wear sunglasses all day.
That says a lot because he mostly stays inside my room and my room is pretty dark as it is. His drinking is getting pretty bad. The cat and I are thinking of staging an intervention.
I am not 100% sure what his reasons for hitting the bottle are, but I am guessing that it has something to do with depression.
It's been a mixture of intense rain and snow for the past week and I haven't been able to take him out for his daily 5 km walk. I tried to cheer him up by playing a new game I created called "Eat all the fruit that I don't like from the container of fruit I bought at the grocery store", but he still just mopes around, occasionally crying.
I, on the other hand, was overjoyed today when I realized that my cat was physically capable of giving people the finger.Now that I know he is able, I just need to train him to actually do it. Imagine.. A cat who gives people the finger on command. I do not think life could get any better than that...


It's Election Day!

Does anybody else feel almost like it's Christmas all over again? Today is full of magical possibilities... OR bitter disappointment and fear for where our country is headed. It shocks me that not everybody is as enthusiastic about voting as I am. How can you not be excited to vote? Students (a.k.a. my peers) leave me with a overwhelming sense of disappointment. Today I saw a statistic that said only 25% of people ages 18 to 24 vote. It is not like voting is particularly strenuous. We're not being asked to a run a marathon here. It is really simple, trust me. It's almost idiot proof. You go to the place where you're supposed to vote, you give them your name, and then you walk behind the little cardboard booth they have set-up and you make an 'X' in the circle next to the candidate you want to vote for. I do not know about all of you, but I learned how to write an 'X' before I was even in kindergarten.
Today, I plan to ensure that all of my friends, every last one of them, head down to the polls and cast their votes. I couldn't wait this long to vote, and did it last Saturday instead. It was awesome. I didn't even have to wait in line or anything.
But seriously... you can't complain about the way your country is being run if you can't even be bothered to take a half an hour out of your day to put your two cents in.
In closing, whether you win or lose, Jack Layton, I still want to bear your children (assuming that Olivia Chow gives us her blessing).


Go figure....

I'm considering hiring a small crowd of people to wait outside of my bathroom and cheer every time I have a regular bowel movement. I'll either give them the thumbs up or thumbs down, and if all my efforts prove fruitless they will console me and say comforting words like "Don't worry, I'm sure next time will be better." or "I have a feeling tomorrow is the day!"

In other news, I have been instructed by the veterinarian to give the dog Metamucil. Apparently, he is not getting enough fiber in his diet and is having trouble passing stool. Super. So my dog is constipated, too. We can bond early in the morning as I drink a glass of "Smooth, orange flavor" Metamucil, and he somehow ingests his.
Metamucil is gross, and I have learned that you should drink it as quickly as possible otherwise it gets thick and gelatinous.. And there's nothing better than ingesting something that looks a whole lot like slime.