Monday, September 19, 2011


I sort of want to abandon this blog, but I can't bring myself to do it. I'm in that odd sort of slump again, the one that resembles the vaguely annoying cousin that you're resigned to hang out with for n number of hours, since he's the only company you have at a party of adults. Somewhere along the way that metaphor got lost, bumped into walls and suffered a concussion.
There are ways. Meandering roads and dimly lit cafes, glitzy boutiques with names like Louis Vitton and Prada emblazoned across their walls. There are skinny Asian chicks with long black curtains of hair, a Gucci purse tucked under their leather jacket clad arm, and a Louis Vitton package dangling from a little finger. There is love and hate and the frustration that comes with a lack of space and privacy. There is Carrot juice and raspberries that go rotten within a day. There's a dull ache somewhere and a recognition of a small void. There's a new September TV schedule which brings back House, HIMYM and Gossip Girl (yes, i know >.<). There's Criminal Minds marathons every other night on television, and then there are vivid daydreams about Spencer Reid. There are cute greying, motion-impaired Italians and stuck up thong-wearing elegantly dressed Russians. There's a ruddy English guy with the accent who plays sports and pipettes with equal panache, and a Maria lookalike from SOM, who is about to get married. There are hosts of co-workers and a cushy cubicle without internet restrictions. There's my frayed bright neon green Benneton backpack which has a ginormous hole in it's side, and was my going away to college present from kuku-kuki.  A dancing silver man on my spiral bound black notebook. Bison sausage on a bun with saute`ed onions and horseradish.A pair of raccoons scampering on my neighbour's balcony, looking up at me with alert beady eyes.  Ignored online courses and an enticing Toronto calling out to me. Cramps and blinding migraines. The tattooes that I just can't seem to get.
This can't go on for much longer without me shooting myself. Life is good and kind of pointless right now. I should be really really happy but I've worn myself out. Stuff needs to change. And I need to snap out of whiny irritable self pity/loathing cuz they are so interchangeable. Longing for godknowswhat and waiting for godknowswhen. Snap out of it, you know? Where's the fucking motivation? Should I have just stayed back and become a stoner chick? SNAP OUT OF IT!

Friday, September 9, 2011

From Toronto, With love

It's been a long, long time but you know that. I meant to write to you, Daff. Honestly, and truly I did. But I've been so caught up in just doing things and exploring and running all over the place, poking my head into places they clearly don't belong. It's wondrous, this freedom of being able to enjoy a place. To set off after a day of work to look around town and stare unabashedly at people, buildings, seagulls- did you know the first person I saw when I moved into my rather sketchy neighbourhood was a transvestite! She was dressed quite nicely but her being tall and burly sorta gave it away. I was Delighted, and mum nearly had an aneurysm. And then we passed a bunch of homeless people lolling on the grass, shirtless and smelling of weed. We went into this seedy looking Popeye's for lunch and in stumbles this drunk redheaded lady, her dress falling off and her breasts spilling out of her cheap black bra. She came in and kicked at the bathroom door, swearing like anything at the counter-people, who'd locked it and kept insisting that they didn't have a bathroom. She tripped over close to me and I held my breath, a little terrified and a little excited. Then she stalked off calling em sons of bitches. After that we crossed a BDSM shop and a bunch of sex shops- God, Daff, it's the funniest thing. Our house is located on this intersection-Sherbourne and Dundas. So right next to our house is this shabby huge cafe called True Love Cafe, replete with pink hearts and advertising 'Lovely Sexy Milkshakes'. Right opposite that is a church and about a few yards away is Filmore's Strip Club. It has those broadway bulbs blinking all night and says things like "When the sun goes down, and things get hazy. Good girls go bad, and the night gets crazy". I kinda want to go, you know. I mean, how many times am I going to be in the city at 19 years old, Right downtown? But I can't figure out whom to ask to come with me, who wouldn't be too freaked out and think I was a pervert or something.
Anyway, I'd better get back to work. I'll write to you soon. Tell you about the pigmy fairy sword juggling acrobat on the street. Not a joke.
Love and 'lovely sexy' hugs.