Chirstmas Posts

Burlington seems to be a little confused.
In recent years the city has decided to create its own festival of lights, only its displays lack any thematic consistency.
Santa flying a helicopter, seals balancing balls on their noses, and dinosaurs.... I do not know what holiday they are celebrating at the lake front, but it is not one that I am familiar with.
As a result of this confusion, I have taken it upon myself to inform the entire city that these lights are ridiculous. "Performing seals and dolphins jumping out of waves have nothing to do with Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or winter!" I shout through my car window as I drive by. I can only do these things when driving my own car because both my parents, brother, and sister all put on the child locks when I am riding as a passenger with them so that I am unable to open the windows to shout things at people.
- 12.20.07

Secret Confession: I sometimes call my brother on his cell phone when I know he is driving his car just to see if he will answer. And when he answers, because he does always answer, I proceed to cite statistics on traffic accidents involving cell phones to him.
- 12.21.07

I handed her the plaster hand and lamented about how my mother refused to mount it on the wall.
"Oh my, but you're missing finger prints on two fingers," she noted.
I narrowed my eyes and glared at her suspiciously. "Are you trying to steal my identity Grandma?" I asked, completely serious, but she just laughed.
In spite of my reservations, my Grandma is now the proud owner of one plaster replica of my hand. I am fairly certain that it is now only a matter of time before she goes on a crime spree, planting my finger prints everywhere to ensure that she is never caught.
- 12.25.07

A few years ago, in what I can only assume was an attempt at family bonding, my father bought two snowmobiles and proceeded to outfit the entire family (with the exception of my older sister because apparently she is unimportant) with skidoo suits, boots, helmets and gloves.
I will take a minute right now to explain something to you, internet. I am not the kind of person whom others look at and say to themselves, "Wow, is she ever cool." Quite frankly, I am the kind of person that people look at and say, "Wow, how did someone so completely uncoordinated ever manage to survive into adulthood?" To my recollection, only once have I ever been referred to as cool (in anything but a sarcastic manner at least), and ironically enough I was doing something decidedly dorky at the time. Cool is not something I aspire to be, so none of this has ever bothered me. But I digress...
I have made it somewhat of a mission in life to become the antithesis of cool, and so it should come as no surprise when I tell you that, in shopping for my skidoo attire, I tried to find the most horrendous outfit I could. If there had been a hot pink, nylon, one piece skidoo suit I would have fallen in love, but alas the best I could find was plain black. But for a helmet I had my eyes set on something I referred to as "the flamer".
- 12.27.07

"I'll have to think about it," I told him.
"It will be fun," he insisted.
"But the last time I went there I ended up vomiting out the sliding door of my van and snorting ecstasy off of the counter. And that's just what I can remember doing. There are entire portions of the evening that I still cannot even account for."
"See!" He says emphatically, "you had a good time."
I decided to ignore him because I knew that if I tried to say anything to the contrary he would simply argue that this "good time" happened during the part of the night that I have no recollection of.
- 12.30.07


Because I haven't written about bowel movements in a little while

There was no way I could lie about it, she had caught me red handed - or, better yet, red mouthed.
"What are you eating?" She inquired.
"Beets," I replied, trying to ensure no food escaped my mouth as I answered her.
"How many beets did you eat?"
I swallowed and backed up just a little before responding, "all of them."
She shook her head in mock disappointment, trying not to laugh, and turned around to return to whatever it was that she had been doing before she had so stealthily apprehended me.
Later, when I would spend an hour in the bathroom producing feces in a startlingly, lovely shade of magenta, I wondered if perhaps she had somehow known that I had ultimately already punished myself.


Putting my English degree to good use!

I've spent an inordinate amount of time pondering the lyrics of Fergie's "London Bridge". More specifically, the chorus of the song is what has captured my attention. I understand that "London Bridge" is clearly a colloquialism for something sexual, but I am perplexed as to what. At first I thought that perhaps Fergie was using London Bridge as a metaphor for her underwear. In this case, the lyrics suggest that every time Fergie finds herself in a state of sexual excitement she feels an inexplicable desire to tragically end the lives of approximately 3,000 people (which is what occurred in 1212 due to the earliest of the fires of London). To be fair, Fergie could equally be referencing one of the other disasters that befell the bridge, such as the Tornado of 1901 or a fire in 1136, which did not have quite as much of a catastrophic impact on human life.
However, upon examining both the single's album cover, as well as its video, one might notice that the featured bridge is not in fact London Bridge at all, but rather Tower Bridge. This could indicate that the lyrics to the song actually mistakenly reference Tower Bridge, meaning the properties of Fergie's "London Bridge" should be compared to those of Tower Bridge in order to properly convey the meaning behind the lyrics. It is important to mention at this point in time that Tower Bridge is actually a Bascule bridge. Taking this information into account, the song lyrics would actually indicate that Fergie finds herself in a perpetual state of arousal and it is only when she is in the presence of the subject of her song that she is able to return to a less - umm - exuberant state of being. This could suggest that, in the song, Fergie is actually attempting to examine the propensity a particular individual has to negatively effect her day/evening.
Taking the rest of the song lyrics into account, it seems plausible that Fergie may actually be expressing her discontent with the paparazzi over their intrusive impact on her day-to-day life and ability to enjoy public outings.
If you think about it, "London Bridge" actually has the potential to be a very deep song. But, in all reality, it is probably still about panties.


But maybe I will start using bean bags when practicing

Every time my parents buy tangerines, I feel as though it is finally my chance to become a world class juggler. Each time I pass by the little wooden, mesh covered crate that holds the fruit, I pull out two (three would be too ambitious) and begin to toss them in the air. Without fail, just as I start to congratulate myself on how well I am doing, one of the tangerines will unceremoniously drop to the floor. It is at this point in time that I quickly look around the kitchen, to make sure no one has witnessed my faux-pas, and then tuck the floor stricken fruit back under the mesh from whence it came and proceed to sneak out of the room.
Later, when a family member wonders aloud why their tangerine is slightly mushy, I sigh and make a silent vow to myself that, one day, I will learn how to juggle.


An Ode to Nina

Nova Scotia is the siren whore that has lured you away from me with its haunting song.
My only consolation is knowing that you will be surrounded by plenty of able semen. Sorry, able seamen (I sometimes get the two confused), although I am sure you could find plenty of able semen if you tried.
"Should your virgin universe taste like a bloody martini I'll masturbate and shoot pubic juice on your balls," you wrote, in magnetic poetry on my wall. I am not sure what it means, and may or may not find it a little disturbing, but I will try to leave it intact there until you return to me. However, "steamy finger tight butt intercourse orgy," which you also wrote on the wall, is another story.
You see, Nina, I don't mind people thinking that I plan to masturbate and shoot pubic juice onto their balls, but I really don't want them to think I want a steamy butt intercourse orgy.


I guess I should be thankful that she wears any clothing at all

When my sister asked me what I wanted for my birthday last week I told her that I had several things on my list, but what I wanted most was for her to retire her see-through, mesh panties in favour of something more opaque when she went for her mid-afternoon strolls around the house in her underwear.
Rolling her eyes when I went on to profess that it was my one birthday wish, she told me no.
Truth be told, it was the answer I expected as I am relatively sure that my sister is an exhibitionist. She did, after all, once walk into a room that I was occupying with several friends (of mixed genders) wearing nothing but a bra, a pair of panties, and a flask that had been strapped to her thigh using a lace garter and a couple of pieces of duct tape.
"Is the flask noticeable?" she had asked, while nonchalantly trying to examine her reflection in the glass door that lead to my mother's office.
"Yes, Lindsay," I told her, "but that is probably because you are not wearing any clothes."



"Is that mustard on your sheets?" My mother asked me.
"No," I snapped, and then cursed silently to myself because, yes, that was mustard on my sheets and when the fuck had I ever brought anything with mustard on it into my bedroom?


Who You Gonna Call?

"I want you to think of a calming song," she said. "I want you to play that song in your head, as you breathe in and out, and then, after you've relaxed, I want you to share with the room what your song was."
Everyone else had good songs; pretty songs. Classical music was the most prominent genre, but every so often someone threw out a title by one hipster band or another. When it was my turn to share I started to turn red. "Megan, what was your song?" the instructor asked.
"Ummmm," I paused, "my song was 'Ghostbusters' by Ray Parker Jr." Apparently it calms me to know that, if there is something wrong in my neighbourhood (specifically of the paranormal variety), there is someone I can call to relate my problems to.


Posts Galore!!!!!!!!

My father is probably one of a handful of people in the world who truly believes that using French doors in a bathroom is a innovative decorative feature. It's actually not though. Using French doors in a bathroom, especially a bathroom that has two entrances that are perpendicular to one another, is pretty much always a mistake.
I have nothing against French doors for the most part, but opacity is something I generally tend to look for in the door to the room in which I have bowel movements.
- 20/10/07

How can a tampon have a no slip grip? And do I really want something with a no slip grip inside of my vagina?
- 23/10/07

Halloween is one of my favourite holidays, primarily because all I do is sit in a chair for a couple of hours by my parents' front door and eat all of my favourite candies out of the giant bowl of junk food that has been purchased for the children of the neighbourhood as I wait for tiny beings to bang on the door demanding that I give them stuff. The thing about this neighbourhood is that there are hardly any children anymore. While the lack of children has inspired some of the elderly neighbours to forgo Halloween altogether, it has inspired others to dole out fist fulls of chocolate to anyone who knocks at the door - children, pizza men, Jehovah's Witnesses alike. Truth be told, I am half tempted to cut off my own legs, only from the knees down, and make the rounds each Halloween because I am confident that I could collect enough candy that losing both of my legs from the knees down really wouldn't bother me that much. The only thing keeping my lower legs safe is the fact that my parents have yet to give up on the children of Aldershot. Each year they buy more and more candy, with a "Field of Dreams" type naivety that if they buy it, they will come (the second "they" being the children, as opposed to baseball players from the 1920's). And yet, each year, fewer and fewer children make the rounds and my siblings and I are forced to consume more an more empty calories because - hey - somebody has to eat that candy.
- 31/10/07

"I am re-naming my cat 'Mr. Sparkles!'," I told them.
"Mr. Sparkles?" my mom repeated.
"No, Mr. Sparkles!, there is an exclamation point at the end of sparkles," I explained.
"Just a quick question," my mom paused to take a sip of her coffee before continuing, "do you really hate your cat that much?"
"Yes," I told her. "Sometimes I really do."
- 02/11/07


Things to do with a plaster hand

I bought some alginate this weekend with the intent of using it to create a mold of my hand that I could fill with Jell-O and then use to scare small children. The Jell-O didn't set, so, in order to get my money's worth, I filled the mold with plaster. The problem with a plaster mold of ones' hand is that there is not a whole lot to do with it. After my mom passed on mounting it on the wall to use as a candle holder and also declined to use it as the first piece of memorabilia in a shrine dedicated to me, I was at a loss as to how to make use of my hand. In the end, I decided to grab the hand and my camera and see what kind of photos I could come up with.

Please note that the bumps on the hand are due to air bubbles in the alginate and not disfiguring warts/moles. Also, I broke off my plaster hand's pinkie while extracting it from the mold. If you pay close attention, you will be able to see a seam where I used more plaster to re-attach it. That is all.

Use it to hold flowers

Feed the fish

Pretend to climb ropes

Rake the leaves (trust me, that blurry blue thing is a rake)

Take funny pictures with liquor bottles.. That crazy hand loves its tequila!

Ever wonder what to do with those boxes of tiny cocktail umbrellas you bought? Use the hand to hold them!!!!

Scare the cat by using the hand to pet it

Play rock, paper, scissors. The hand is surprisingly hard to beat.

Make your father arm wrestle the hand

In spite of having no arm muscles, the hand wins!

Use it as a place to put your phone (so that you can finally stop losing it)

Use the hand to make it look like you are not hogging the remote

Pretend that the hand knows how to use the computer


Janet Jackson would go on to flash her nipple approximately 45 minutes later

In my first year of University, one of my roommates had a hanging lamp, which she purchased from Ikea, displayed proudly in her room. It is important at this point in time, for the sake of the story, that I mention that the hanging lamp was made out of blue rice paper. Needless to say, it was a delicate lamp and it had been made clear to me on more than one occasion that I was never to touch it.
You all know where this story is going, of course I ended up breaking the hanging lamp. That hanging lamp was doomed the minute my roommate packed it up and brought it with her to University. Ultimately it was the finale of Super Bowl XXXVIII's pre-game show that would do it in.
Aerosmith was in the midst of playing their hearts out, and dancers were running around the field with beautiful dancing ribbons streaming after them. Moved by what was happening on screen, I picked up a plastic tape measure that was sitting on my roommate's side table and began to wave it in the air, imitating (with far less sophistication) the movements of the dancers on the TV.
"Wave that ribbon!" My roommate exclaimed, "you were born to do this!" And, for a minute, I believed her. I believed her right up until I heard the metal end of that plastic tape measure puncture the paper body of her hanging lamp.
I stopped abruptly, the tape measure falling to my side, closed my eyes and prepared myself for the painful death that I was sure would follow. When death did no immediately find me, I slowly opened up one eye and glanced cautiously towards where my roommate was sitting.
As I had expected, tears were streaming down her face - however, much to my surprise, they seemed to be the result of laughter rather than sadness/a burning desire to kill me. I was even more surprised at what she said next: "Don't you stop, Megan." She cried, "don't you ever stop waving that ribbon."
"But I just ruined your lamp," I said, in disbelief.
"Forget that," she shouted, "just wave. You wave that ribbon, Megan."
And so, deciding not to question her, I once more waved that plastic tape measure high above my head. I waved that plastic tape measure with everything I was and everything I had in me, all the while making fervent promises to replace the hanging lamp that had fallen victim to my new career.
In spite of numerous man hours spent in Ikea, diligently searching for a replacement, I have only very recently been able to locate another hanging lamp. While relating the entire story over the Internet may not be the best way to keep it a surprise, I am now finally able to make good on my promise to replace the lamp that I/Aerosmith broke.


All of my socks have pictures of animals frolicking on them.
No, wait, that's not entirely true. Some of them display a single animal looking bored, and others show multiple animals at various stages of rest.
I am not sure if you know this, but it is somewhat difficult to convince yourself you are in fact an adult when there are woven pictures of kittens playing with balls of yarn prominently displayed on your feet.


$30 worth of glitter later....

And the award for world's greatest sister in our house goes to: Megan
I feel like this sign is so great that I no longer even actually have to go to any of his games - not that I've been to any of his games so far. The season only started yesterday and I was too busy creating my masterpiece to actually attend the opener.


As opposed to just a weirdo with out pee in her purse

As I sat in the office, waiting patiently in my chair, I couldn't help but think of the container of urine I had hidden away in my purse. The last time I was at the doctor's office I had made a special request to take a specimen jar home with me after I'd explained to my doctor the tribulations I endure when forced to wait to pee until I am locked away inside one of the sterile bathrooms located in the medical lab.
"I always have to pee first thing in the morning and I can never manage to hold it long enough to get down here and wait for them to draw my blood. And then, because I've already peed, my bladder is empty and I am in that little bathroom for fifteen minutes hoping that filling up 1/5th of the container is going to provide enough urine for the lab techs to do whatever kind of magical tests it is that they have to do. It's very embarrassing, especially because 3/4s of the urine I do manage to produce ends up all over my hand and on the outside of the specimen jar. Do you know what it's like to have to turn in a specimen jar with a wet label?" I asked. My doctor just smiled at me, opened one of the drawers to his right, pulled out a small plastic container and handed it over wordlessly.
And so, ideal patient that I am, I fasted all night long, and as soon as morning struck I pulled that specimen jar from off my dresser and headed for the bathroom. I filled that container with an ease I had never previously experienced when it came to peeing in jars. When it was 4/5ths of the way full, I stopped and beamed at the jar as I screwed its top on. After that, I placed the container into a Ziploc bag (just in case), tossed it into my purse and rushed out the door for the doctor's office.
Never having transported urine anywhere before, I was unsure what the proper procedure was - but assumed I should probably keep the container well hidden and not mention to anyone that I was toting around a cup full of my own pee. Before I knew it, my physical was done and I was being sent over to the medical lab for testing. 'This is it,' I had thought. 'This is where all my hard work pays off.' Only no one ever asked me for my sample. No one asked me for my sample because my doctor had not requested a urinalysis. I had just spent nearly two hours carting my urine all around the city and the medical building only to find out that it was completely unnecessary and I was now just a weirdo with a container of pee in her purse.


That should be their new slogan

I super-glued my toe shut.
I had a deep slice that looked as though I'd attempted to remove my own baby toe and instead of getting stitches I decided to super-glue it shut.
I'd gotten up to use the bathroom at around five in the morning only to ram right into a street sign I had borrowed from the city. "Fuck!" I exclaimed, and avoided looking down for as long as possible. When I did, look down that is, I noticed that there was blood flowing liberally from a superficial wound on the top of my smallest toe. I thought it odd that a relatively shallow cut would produce so much blood, but shrugged my shoulders and sought out my first aid kit without giving it much more thought.
I hopped around the basement floor in an attempt to avoid leaving a trail of bodily fluids behind me, but failed miserably. Once I reached the laundry room sink, I propped my foot up on the counter to give my wound a closer examination. It is at this point in time that one would think I would have noticed that the sign had tried to sever my toe off, but I did not. It took me an additional twenty minutes to figure out that my toe had actually been damaged in two places.
"Fuck," I repeated, but with much less enthusiasm. While the wound on the top of my toe was nothing to worry about, the slice in between my toes proved more worrisome.
It looked like the kind of cut that needed stitches. I'd had such a cut once before, the result of a failed attempt to cut a watermelon using a bread knife, but had managed to escape getting stitches when the admitting nurse at the ER told me it would only require one. "No. No, thank you," I had told her, and quickly convinced my father that our time would be better spent somewhere other than the ER. But this cut - this cut looked worse than the watermelon fiasco. This cut looked like my foot had started to evolve and this evolutionary stage involved the formation of a mouth.
I wiggled my baby toe and the mouth laughed at me. "Good luck with your day of shoe shopping now," it said.
That's when it came to me: super glue. Both my grandfather and uncle had told me stories in which they sang the praises of super glue and its joyous medicinal qualities. "You know it was developed during the war as a quick alternative to stitches," my grandfather had said.
So that morning I had my father run out to Canadian Tire and fetch me a tube of super glue.
Let me just tell you this, internet: super glue is super awesome.


Actually, I know I will miss it

I am laying on a bare mattress that rests in the middle of the floor in an empty room. It is my last night in North Bay - ever, or at least for the foreseeable future.
I’ve thought very little about my actual departure from this city. It has been a date marked on my calendar for months now surrounded by exclamation points and stars, but, other than considering the kinds of supplies I’d require to pack up the house, I’d never really given much thought to the other implications the date held. I am leaving this city essentially the same way I entered it: without any real attachments to its inhabitants and less than thrilled about my living arrangements once I settle into my new life.
Despite making many friends, I knew that each goodbye I made was permanent – unless, of course, it was the other party who made the effort to keep in touch. In truth, I dodged goodbyes wherever possible and implemented a strict “no hugging” rule for the ones I found myself unintentionally caught in. This statement sounds slightly depressing, but I never expected to make lasting relationships in this city and found relief in the fact that it seems I haven't.


But not before exclaiming, "This is why I broke-up with you!"

I was surprised when my cell phone rang because, after all, I can't recall having ever given anyone the number - not intentionally at least. I narrowed my eyes at it in hopes that my sheer level of annoyance would cause it to cease its vibrating and cower away in a corner somewhere. When it became clear that the phone was not going to make things easy, I flipped it open and proceeded to offer up a half-assed greeting to whoever was on the other side.
"This is Corey," an unfamiliar male voice announced, "you broke up with me three days ago."
Oh. Corey.
Truth be told, I did not actually know Corey by name. You see, last week I got drunk and decided it would be hilarious to send the same text message out to each member of my family. The idea had come from an episode of the television show 7th Heaven, in which one of the Camden's daughters is broken up with via text message. "M br8kn up w/u," the text read.
What I forgot was that my sister had terminated her old cell phone plan before she went away to Europe/Africa approximately a year and a half ago, and I had failed to update my phone's address book with her new phone number. Needless to say, with a number that was less than current, my sister never got my hilarious text message. Instead, it went to Corey.
Oh, Corey.
Dear, sweet, creepy Corey. Distraught over our break-up, he called my cell phone in a last ditch effort to save our relationship. In what can best be described as two and a half of the most awkward minutes of my life, I attempted to explain the hilarity of my mix-up to the voice on the other end of the phone. When he failed to laugh the way I felt he should and quickly proceeded to accuse me of stalking him, I hung up the phone.


Save(d) as Draft(s)

I keep having nightmares about dying, night after night.
I used to think that I wasn't afraid of death, but I have come to realize that I was deluding myself.
I am afraid completely afraid to die. The idea leaves me terrified.

I still mean every promise I have ever made.

I used to have an intense desire to own a white duck.
I had it all planned out. The duck's name would be Professor McQuacks and he would follow me every where. We would go to the park together where I would feed him pieces of bread as he swam in the water and the other ducks looked on in jealousy. At the end of each day, I would tuck Professor McQuacks into my bed and read him a bedtime story. However, in the morning I would wake-up with a bad case of salmonella and realize that I had accidentally rolled over the Professor in my sleep.

I sprayed the air freshener in the sign of the holy cross, hoping against all hope that it would somehow purge the smell, that was surely evil, from the room. It didn't though.

My sister is always giving me inside information on things that I don't care about, like dessert wines and diamond mining. "I will let you come to my champagne tasting," she tells me one evening, "I will only make you pay $100."

I have a hard time thinking of myself in terms of anything but goofy looking. I feel incredibly self-conscious when talking about my physical appearance because, after all, I have looked in a mirror before and been greeted by the sight of my bulbous nose and Charlie Brown-like head.


But I'll know for sure Friday morning

It's a race against the clock. Which will come first, my period or my annual physical?
Only time will tell.


Algonquin 2007

I have spent the past three days verbally sparring with a handful of 14-year-olds. In spite of their youthful enthusiasm, I broke their spirits relatively quickly by shouting things like "Get a haircut!" and "In a few years you're going to have to start paying taxes!" at them. They were doomed to fall in love with me from the start.


Man in Canoe at 6:30 am



Lily Dipper




"I don't care which one of them shows up. I am getting one of my cousins drunk tomorrow," I declared.
"But Amanda is only 15!" my mom cried disapprovingly. She is always trying to rain on my parades.
- 07/18/07

"You are just jealous because nobody wishes you ALL OF GOD'S RICHEST BLESSINGS," I said to her, quoting a card I had received (along with $25) from a great-aunt earlier in the week.
"If you say that one more time today I am going to throw something at your head."
"Fair enough," I replied and walked away.
- 07/10/07

We were in the same class for two years, but the only reason I even remember his name at all is because he threw-up one day in the first grade. My friends and I all spent the next few months emphatically avoiding the spot his vomit had landed, which happened to be right smack in the middle of the only doorway leading into the classroom.
I never thought I would be so desperately concerned about the health of someone that I was never even really friends with. Yet each night I squeeze my eyes shut and pray to a God that I don't even believe in, asking him to let this boy I once knew go into remission.
- 07/08/07


But other than that, I have a sparkling personality and a winning smile

Did you know that I am an asshole? It's true, I am. A giant one.
It is a realization that has been slowly dawning on me over the past decade or so.
I was once told, in so many words, that recognizing your own flaws is meaningless if you are unwilling to do anything to change them. I recognize that I can be judgmental, introverted, and suffer from a bit of a superiority complex. I hold on to anger for ridiculously long periods of time, and I frequently consider myself morally superior to those around me when, in truth, I am really no more moral than anybody else. And let's not forget the fact that I am incredibly flaky and have severe commitment issues.
Recognizing your own flaws does not somehow negate the negative impact that they have on both yourself and those around you, but I'd like to think that it is a step in the right direction.


July 11th

The circus is in town this weekend. They have set their tent up right down the street from our house. I remember you in your silly hat, with a smile plastered on your face, as you handed me a mound of cotton candy and told me that you had made special arrangements for me to ride the elephant. What I did not realize until years later is that anyone can make special arrangements to ride the elephants, assuming they are willing to part with ten dollars.
Each year I think that the fact that you are gone will not matter any more today than it did yesterday. This year I find myself surprised to realize that it does.
Those first few days I thought, "Yesterday this time my world was intact."
I continued to count time in relation to when you had exited my life for that entire first year.
I don't remember when I last visited your grave. I can't decide whether this fact would upset you, or if you would simply be pleased that I think of you at all.


It's been longer than 30 days so I may just have to keep him

Three years later and I still have the receipt for my dog (yes, I irresponsibly bought him from a pet store). One day, I plan on taking him back to the family run store where we first met, holding the receipt very clearly in my hand, and asking them what kind of return policy they have.
"I do not think this is the same dog that I bought here," I will tell them. "This one is much bigger than the one I left with. I am not exactly sure what happened, but I am almost positive that it is not my fault."


It kind of makes me feel dirty

I never hid the fact that I was leaving the house that evening with the sole intention of going to a friend's to make brownies whose main ingredient would be marijuana.
"Why don't you bring me home one?" my mother joked.
"I will be bringing some home," I told her, "but do you seriously want me to save you one?"
Since our conversation earlier in the year, in which (through my response) it became overwhelmingly apparent that I had partaken in recreational drug use on more than one occasion, I have been incredibly honest with my parents about the majority of my illicit activity.
I brought the brownies home later that evening, and while my mother has yet to partake, I have somehow become a supplier to my entire family. Last weekend I gave several to my aunt and today I gave one to my uncle's common-law wife. What is perhaps even more disturbing is that I did all of this in front of my Grandmother.
"Do not eat the whole thing in one sitting." I cautioned. "In fact, I am only going to give you half of one and I don't even want you to eat half of that in one sitting. And wait at least two hours before eating another one. It will take some time to kick in and you will regret the second brownie after the first one starts to work."
I never thought the day would come when I would be lecturing my aunts and uncles about proper safety precautions when it came to ingesting pot-laden brownies.


Plethora of Posts

Dear Internet,
I am higher than a fucking kite right now. That's a funny word - kite - I wonder who made that word up. But that is unimportant - what is important is that I am stoned.
Stoned. Stoned. Stoned.

"I would love to!" I exclaimed, and was more than a little surprised to hear myself say it. I have never emceed at a wedding before and generally find myself uncomfortable in situations that involve speaking in front of crowds. Also, I do not speak Swedish and that could prove to be a problem.

My father and I met with a real estate agent last week. He was a balding, elderly gentleman who had sunspots intermixed with patches of white hair on his shiny head.
I was not thrilled that my father had called in the real estate agent when he did - the house was a mess, and I did not have adequate time to change out of my "work clothes" (read: pajamas) and into something more appropriate. I had wanted the house to sparkle with cleanliness and general awesomeness before we presented it to a realtor, and I generally enjoy a chance to shower so that I am clean when I meet new people. However, my father insisted that none of these things mattered in the grand scheme of things

"What is this for?" I asked her, holding up a strange looking device.
"Mosquito bites. It produces a small electrostatic current that causes the bite to stop itching," she explained.
"Oh," I said. "Does it hurt?"
"No. You can't even feel it."
I was curious as to whether or not this was actually true. And so, in the sake of science, I put the device against my sister's arm and initiated an electrostatic current.
"Ouch!" She cried, "What the hell did you do that for?!"
"LIAR! You lied! You said it did not hurt!"

Our conversations are never boring, that is for sure.
"I do not know," I told her, "I do not think that I could do it. I mean, I am relatively sure I could receive, but fairly confident that I could not reciprocate."

You know it is going to be a good story because he begins it by saying "So I was banging your friend Ashley..."

This morning I burped for what seemed like an hour. In reality it lasted mere seconds, but it felt like much more time had elapsed.


The pharmacist at the local drugstore reminds me of Wayne Newton. Every time I go in to get a prescription filled I cannot help but hum a little bit of Danke Schoen. I am still not entirely convinced that Wayne Newton hasn't given up show business in favour of pursuing his dream of running a relatively small pharmacy in Southern Ontario. His voice even has a similar cadence to Wayne's and, while in reality he is explaining possible symptoms and saying things like "rash" and "palpitations of the the heart," I imagine that he is crooning to me in a low, sensuous voice.


Because apparently he believes an angry stomach is an indicator of a future contraction of an STD

He wouldn't stop talking about poop, and not just his own poop either.
"Did you feel that?" I asked him, in response to his excrement anecdotes.
"Feel what? My gut is rumbling."
"That's not your gut," I explained, "that is our friendship evolving. You just brought us to a whole new level."
"I think my gut is angry with me," he said, ignoring me completely.
"That is probably your body's way of telling you that you are going to get the scootes later."
"What is that?" He asked, "Some sort of STD?"
"No, it is diarrhea, but close."



There was poop. On the floor. Gross, runny poop on the living room floor, which is carpet.
I'd spent the past twenty minutes thinking my sister had dropped one hell of a bomb in our shared bathroom, prior to leaving for work, when really it was poop. Dog poop. Yuck.
I stared at it for several minutes, t-shirt hiked up over my nose in an attempt to keep the smell at bay. Could I pretend that I just hadn't seen it? Yes. Yes I could.
- 4/4/07

Sick of the tyrannical oppression of the fenced in yard, the dogs decided to escape into the woods.
Confused at their sudden absence, I stood on my parents patio, scratching my head, as I waited for my brain to kick in. When a combination of whistling and calling their names failed to draw them back, I tried yelling out invectives at random.
The woods are beautiful, but they become exponentially less so with each additional minute that you are forced to trek through the near-frozen mud wearing your brother's Crocs.
- 4/11/07

The mouse, no matter how hard I stared at it, did not get any less dead or any less smelly.
- 4/13/07

I called him, crying. "I miss you," I whispered into the receiver. My confession was met with silence, and I closed my eyes wishing for a way to take it back.
"I miss you, too" he finally answered.
- 4/19/07

Looking back on it now, I have spent the past two years trying to distance myself from everyone I've met here. Slowly, I stopped returning phone calls, went out with less frequency, and started spending more and more time out of the city. It wasn't until yesterday that I really stopped to think about it. And now I am suddenly overcome with a complete and utter sense of regret. It's done now. It's over. There's no going back.
- 4/26/07


Easter and my colon: a love story

Since Easter is the time of year when we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ, I felt it was the perfect time to attempt to resurrect my bowels through fasting and a series of flushes. If you have ever experienced a flushing of the bowels you will know that it is not all fun and games. In fact, I can assure you that none of it is fun and games. The kinds of things that exit your body, via your rectum, are both disturbing and awe-inspiring. Which brings us to this morning...
I sat there, on the toilet, expressing my dismay at the kinds of noises, smells, and semi-solids my body was producing. "Oh god, that's disgusting!" I repeated over and over again.
And then, suddenly, my litany of exclamations was stopped when I heard a voice, heavy with sleep, ask "Megan? Is that you?"
No, I wanted to say. No, it is not me. I am a burglar who has broken into your house with the sole intention of using your bathroom in the most disturbing way.
The truth is that I had not actually known that my sister was home. We share a common bathroom, accessible through both of our rooms, and I immediately felt a wave of guilt for the aftermath she was now surely to experience.
"Megan?" she asked again. "What are you doing?"
"Ummm..." I paused, "I am just going to the bathroom."
After that, I decided to use the bathroom upstairs and refrain from giving a play-by-play to anyone who might be within listening-distance.


Save As Draft

There was only one egg left in the refridgerator and I was unsure that I wanted to limit my future meal options by wasting it on pancakes.
"Don't worry," I said to the dog. "The eggs are optional, I think." And it was mostly true.

It is the morning after and I am still drinking.
"I don't know that is a good idea." he said to me, trying to take the bottle from my hand.
"Shhhhhh...... I am working." I don't know what I meant at the time, and I know even less now.

I announced to the room, "My name is Megan and I am here for kicks." My declaration was met with silence and I briefly wondered if I had taken the wrong approach to my introduction.

"Her style is similar to that of Lauryn Hill," I stopped for a second, "that is to say if Lauryn Hill were a white, British, Jew who had a bit of a drinking problem."

We sat in her room giggling and talking for hours.
"What would you do if you were dating a guy who you thought was perfect. Gorgeous, well-mannered, thoughtful, honest, faithful, rich, but the catch is he only ever wanted to have anal sex. What would you do?" She asked seriously.
She nodded in response.
"I don't know. My rectum is the one thing on my body that I generally try to avoid having things inserted into. That is a tough call. Can I fake it?"



Looking back on it, I think I may have been an odd child. Ninth grade gym class required the creation of a dance routine. Why? I am not entirely sure. Born leader that I am, I told my group of four other girls that we would reenact a scene from the motion picture The Full Monty. Of course, we left the nudity to the professionals (which one member of the group would later become).
I followed up my highly successful ninth grade dance routine with my ever memorable Risky Business-themed routine of tenth grade. It involved underwear, dress shirts, socks, and a whole lot of sliding across the wooden gym floor.

"The Canada Revenue Agency is scrambling to fix a computer glitch that is preventing people from filing online tax returns and it could effect you, too." The TV anchorman announced.
"I really don't understand how Canadian tax returns could effect U2," she said.
I paused for a minute, making sure I had heard her right. "Did you really just say that?" I asked.

"I bet you rode the short bus to school, didn't you?" he laughed.
"I did ride the short bus to school. What are you getting at?"
"Are you serious? I was just joking. You really went to school on the special bus?"
"Not the special bus, the mini-bus. My bus driver's name was Prim" I explained.
"Awwwww, muffin."
"I don't understand. What is so funny? For three years, I took the mini-bus to elementary school." By this point in time, I was beyond confused.
"Everyone knows that only the mentally challenged children ride the short bus to school." I narrowed my eyes at him in an effort to show him my contempt.
"My elementary school only had three developmentally challenged children: Amanda, Andrew, and Jessica. They were all in wheelchairs and I used to play with them at recess."
"I'm sure you did."
"I just want you to know that I am going to kill you in your sleep tonight" I told him.

There are surprisingly few things to do as you wait, with your parents, for a tow truck to come pick up your vehicle. My mom spent most of our hour long wait glaring at me when, after voicing her need for a bathroom, I directed her towards an open field.


They just didn't know by what

Today a transport helped me accept Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Saviour when, upon driving to school with all my windows down, it drove by me, baptizing me with a shower of muddy water. Immediately, I was filled with the holy spirit, or maybe it was disgust. Regardless, every where I went in the school that day, people could tell that I had been touched.


99 Problems

Do you think Jay-Z made a list and counted all of his problems before coming out with the song? And, if so, do you think they were real problems, or just silly things like "I spilled mustard on my favourite pants"?



I sat in the bathtub, contemplating my own knees. They are full of scars from the numerous scrapes and cuts they have endured over the years, but they are good knees. They are the only knees I have ever known, of course, so I really have nothing to compare them to.
I am startled out of my reverie when the cat jumps up onto the side of the bathtub and begins lapping up my bathwater. I glare at him and silently pray that he does not slip and fall in.

My parents washing machine sings a song when it has finished each load. So overjoyed with completing its task, it cannot help but play a little tune to celebrate its accomplishments. "Look!" it cries with excitement. "Come look at these clothes that I have just cleaned!"

For a while now I have been the considerate sister. The sister who, upon noticing that half of her new shampoo and conditioner has mysteriously vanished over night, went out and bought a second set of shampoo and conditioner so that the only other person using the shower would not have to "borrow" anymore.
Today that changed. I used my sister's shampoo. And you know what? I am totally going to use it again tomorrow.

"Dakota Fanning," I declared.
"You would cast Dakota Fanning in the role of a male court attorny?" my professor laughed. "What about the second role? The sheriff?"
"Dakota Fanning in both roles," I replied with conviction.
"And what inspired you to cast Dakota Fanning in those roles?"
"She seems to be in almost every movie these days, and I think maybe this play could be her chance to break free of all the stereotypes she is currently being subjected to. She will shatter boundaries and usher in a new age of theatre. It will be glorious."
My new goal in life: talk about Dakota Fanning as often as possible during my English Seminar.



When you first think of it, all you can see is how awesome it would be to put every single article of clothing you own on at once. What you don't stop to consider is how hot approximately 45 shirts, 3 sweatshirts, and 14 pairs of pants will be. You also fail to realize that that much clothing will provide you with restricted movement, and thus taking off the items will take more than twice the time it took to put them on.

I have learned many things since my first year of University. However, none of them have been academic.


dog park drama

The dog park always leaves me feeling like a horribly unqualified dog owner. Maybe this is because my dog spends a good twenty minutes of each visit trying to hump the various other dogs that he is engaged in play with. I would not mind the humping if he allowed the other dogs a proper go, but he is highly hypocritical when his turn comes to be on the receiving end.
I spent our time there shouting things at him that made the other dog owners giggle behind my back. "Do you not understand that I am leading by example?" I asked. "I do not hump the other dogs in this park, so you should not hump them either!" I threw a tennis ball in an effort to distract him and, thankfully, it worked. "I do not know what I should do," I confessed to one of the other owners. "He seems to have found something he is good at and is sticking with it. I just don't know that it is the kind of hobby I can lend my support to."
The dog happily returned with the ball in his mouth and dropped it at my feet. Unfortunately, before I could even bend down to pick it up, he was at it again. The brindle boxer, whom my dog was so enthusiastically showing his moves to, stood their proudly, seemingly oblivious to the attention my dog was lavishing upon his back end. "Dog," I pled. "Please!"
"Do not worry," the boxer's owner reassured me, patting my shoulder. "Chev is just too slow. It is really his own fault."
While I appreciate her concern for me, I cannot see how what she says could possibly be the truth. Whenever I have been subjected to unwanted/unwarranted humping, never have I thought "If only I had been faster!"


but i don't think it bothers me

He acts like a baby when he is sick. This is probably why it baffles me that his whiny voice actually triggers my heart to melt just a little.
"I do not know why I am still sick," he tells me. "I have been doing everything right." It takes several minutes before I am able to get him to confess to washing his cold medication down with beer.
"What did you expect?" I sigh. "You are supposed to be drinking lots of fluids."
"But beer is a fluid," he argues.
"Water. You are supposed to be drinking lots of water." His forehead is warm and, despite the sweat that is soaking his sheets, he is shivering.
"I think I am dying," He groans.
"You are not dying," I assure him, running my hand across his back in slow circles. "You are just an idiot. I am going to get you a glass of water."
I shake my head at the disarray of his apartment. It is clear that four other males cohabit the space. As I walk back into his room, I catch sight of the panicked face he is making. Oh, god. There is going to be vomit. He vaults out of the bed and pushes his way past me. The sounds of his retching lets me know that he has made it to the bathroom in time. I take a minute to mentally prepare myself before I join him in an attempt to offer up a little bit of comfort.
There is what appears to be a clean washcloth sitting next to the bathroom sink and I quickly grab it, running it under the cold water before I crouch down next to him and wipe it tenderly across his forehead. "I am going to run you a bath," I tell him. "It is going to feel cold, but that is only because you have a fever." His head is resting against the porcelain of toilet, a brave move in a dwelling where the inhabitants rarely look before they aim, but I think I see him nod.
The bathtub is surprisingly clean and barely requires a wipe down before I start to fill it. His head is now resting on his forearm, on the edge of the toilet, and his eyes are closed. If I didn't know better, I would say he looked peaceful. As the tub finishes filling, I rub his head and tell him that I need him to take off his pants.
"You have been waiting years to say that," he accuses, as he rises to his feet.
"You caught me. I have spent the last seven years just waiting to catch you feverish, wreaking of vomit and completely helpless. Do you need my help, or can you get into the tub on your own?"
He smiles down at me and, without warning, pulls his pajama bottoms down around his ankles. "I better not catch you looking," he warns, stepping into the tub. "My virtue is at stake."
As he lowers himself down, I toss the washcloth at his head. "Cover your virtue with that," I instruct him and I exit the bathroom, in search of a clean towel, before he can respond.
It is another hour before I leave. Rubbing his stomach and tucking him into bed, I lean over his head and reach for the extra pillow that is scrunched up in between his mattress and the wall. "I just saw all the way down your shirt," he giggles.
"Wonderful," I sigh, deciding that he no longer needs an extra pillow. "Call me tomorrow morning so that I know you have not perished during the night." And with that, I leave him.
Sometimes I feel like I've entered into a sexless marriage that I didn't entirely agree to.


pages from my journal

The following are a collection of entries from the journal I have sporadically kept over the years. The sentences appealed to me and may or may not have been taken entirely out of context in their transition from paper to interweb:

I jumped into the pool, fully clothed. It was cold.

Is it bad that I cannot remember his name or what he looked like?

There is something beautiful about the highway at night. Well, at least after you've been smoking pot there is.

If my life were a song, I think it would be something by ABBA. A melody that is chipper and up-beat with lyrics that are surprisingly somber. My life is the music of a 1970s Swedish pop group.

It reminds me of the time, when I was four, that I burnt a hole in my sisters winter coat with a sparkler. Did I want to set her on fire? I am not entirely sure.

note to self: telling strangers about situations that may cause you to lose control of your bowels is not a good way to break the ice.

I miss you most on cold nights. Who will keep my feet warm now?



My cat has spent the past fifteen minutes staring at a nondescript spot on the wall. Every few seconds, he cocks his head to the side, as if to further examine the spot at which he stares so intently, and proceeds to swat at it. When swatting has failed, he moves on to scratching. I wish he'd find himself a better hobby.
- 2/5/07

The moon was full and bright in the night's sky, illuminating the dog sitting calmly on the steps. I stood just inside the door, keeping watch over my charge, in awe of the moonlight's beauty. Snow is always at its most beautiful at night.
- 1/31/07

I used to get called to the vice-principals office weekly in high school. "You miss so much school," he would tell me. "Do you know that, on average, students' grades drop 1% for each day they are absent?"
"Clearly this is not true," I laughed. "That would mean that my average would be well above 100%."
"That is the thing," he whined. "You are defying these statistics. Imagine what your marks would be if you stopped missing so much school."
I merely shrugged in response. I have never cared what my marks could be. I merely focus on what they are and how much effort I have to put in to get them where I want them to be.
My high school biology teacher once told me, "You may be able to miss school like this now, but you'll never be able to keep this up in university." I think I have subconsciously made it my mission to prove her wrong.
- 1/24/07

When you receive an e-mail from a close friend that reads as follows:
Yo, are you dead? Where are you? I have called your house so many times I could be qualified a stalker. Don't make me break in there through a window.
Call me.

It makes you realize that you might have been more than slightly neglecting your social duties.
- 1/20/07

Last week I broke the cardinal rule when using a public washroom: I took a dump. Upon entering the washroom, I did a thorough search to ensure that I was alone before proceeding to a stall that was far away from the door. After carefully covering the toilet seat with one-ply, toilet paper that rivaled sand paper, I took a seat and began to move my bowels in ways that should never occur in public.
Upon exiting the stall to wash my hands, I realized that, at some point in time during my bowel movement, someone had joined me in the bathroom. With all my straining and gas, I had lost my ability to multi-task and keep an ear out for the door. Naturally, I washed my hands and took off out of the bathroom at light speed.
- 1/15/07


Animal Cruelty

"It is like killing one bird with two stones," she tells me.
"Wait. Two stones? Why would you use two stones? Are you really that mean?"
"What? Wait, no."
"I mean, the first stone would likely be fatal, so what is the second one for? I think a second stone would just be overkill. You are cruel," I told her.
"But, that's not what I meant!" She cried, "I meant to say 'kill two birds with one stone.'"
"Oh, I see. So now you want to take out a whole family of birds. You are sick. What next? Babies?"