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