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.