Friday, December 31, 2010

Happy Old Year, Happy New Year.

Dear Globlets,

Happy New Year! What did you do in the Old Year, 2010?

I... broke up with Sp after being with him for a year, became friends with him again, then we had a fight and "broke up" again, then gave it another chance, then "broke up" one last time... because I made plans with friends on a day he wanted to see me.
I became better friends with Sh.
A second chance of some form of acquaintanceship/friendship with Sk has presented itself thanks to her.
I made some wonderful friends and have found myself feeling like I belong to a group of nice people who all get along. Yay MOHM!
I got drunk. A couple of times. But the last time was the worst... I lost track of how many glasses I'd had and didn't have any water throughout the evening, but I woke up without a hangover! Instead, I had a very mild headache that went away as soon as I took an ibuprofen... and proceeded to vomit for the entirety of that day. This is no exaggeration. But it was no hangover, it was alcohol poisoning, and it was enough to make me never want to drink that much again.
I got into college and completed my first semester with straight As.
I wrote a twenty page short story that I intend to turn into a novel.
I globulated more.
I freakin' turned 19.
I got into my car, turned the ignition, drove out of the driveway, onto a real-live street(!), let go of the brake, pressed the gas pedal, and drove. I even signaled and turned left and right and shit.
I learned more about myself and what kind of behaviour/people I'm willing to put up with.
I started watching True Blood and became addicted to it.
I got a crush on the new Doctor Who, Matt Smith.
I bitched a lot.
I made manjar.
I had a Chilean food party for my birthday and made empanadas.
I bought a beautiful pair of Mary Janes.
I did not go to Oregon. :(
I kissed Lucy a lot.
I got a really good job, was not paid for 7 months, and now they've sent me a couple of cheques but still have to pay me for the work I did after the summer. However, I did learn how to be better with people - in person and on the phone.
I. got. a. red. bra. Two of them. Three of them, actually, if you include my red one with black lace.
I ROWED. Like, in a boat. And raced. And was awesome. With my mom. Go Rowing Stones!

In 2011, I plan to...
get my L.
get into UVic.
pwn in all my courses.
upgrade my math.
get a new job.
bitch a lot more.
bake a lot of pies.
give Lucy a lot of kisses.
kill a lot of zombies.
take more pictures.
write more stories.
more more more more newer newer newer newer better better better better.

During my last shower of 2010, the following occurred...
Me: MOM! Help! Help! Help! Can you pass me the skin cleanser please?
Mom: Sure. Here. Anything else?
Me: A piƱa colada!
Figured it was worth a try.

Do you have any New Year's resolutions?

Last song played in 2010 (and quite a good one for the time, chosen randomly by my iPod):


Dear Globlets,

This is not what you think it is. Post about New Year's will come later. Patience, my globlets. Because I know just how much you are craving it and, oh Lucy, I am too!!! Right...

This depicts our current situation quite perfectly. Our stereo speakers have been broken since we lived in our previous apartment - three years-ish ago. Yesterday, I, once again, told my mom that the right one doesn't work. She was surprised and asked why she hadn't heard about this sooner. Except she has; a few months ago I reminded her. And a few months before that, I reminded her then. And so on. But if you ask her, she'll tell you it's a lie and I've never mentioned it. *sigh* Such is life. (I love you, mommy.) (Yes, I call her mommy. Because I'm cool. Like bow ties.)

How did I find out? I played this:

You know how the beginning goes... Danananana BWOOWNGGG! Danananana BWOOWNGGG!
Well, the "BWOOWNGGG" was almost silent and, frankly, "She's a Lady" just ain't the same without it.

And seriously, what an awesome song.

My Lucy, the 70s were a sexy, sexy time:

Now, I must go take a shower. Wouldn't want to be smelly on the last day of 2010!

Thursday, December 30, 2010


Dear Globlets,

Why does nature have to be so cool?

Random Midnight Writing.

Dear Globlets,

Writing at midnight leads to weird things...

The jazz was like honey. The blues like butterscotch. The rock and alternative varied between white, milk and dark chocolate depending on its harshness. The classical was clear caramel. The heavy metal reminded me of an unsweetened bar of baker’s chocolate that I once burned and then tried to save by adding copious amounts of sugar. It wasn’t my thing. Neither was the pop that was like that horrendous cheese popcorn so many people seem to like. The trance/techno/electronica music was caramel popcorn: crunchy, but soft and sweet, and easy to consume.

If this is any good in the morning, maybe I'll use it for a future story. Goodnight, globlets.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

I like this 57: Stroking my morbidity-loving side.

Dear Globlets,

I keep forgetting to finish my globulation on premature ejaculation, damn it!

Until then...

I like this...

I saw this video on Pharyngula:

The ever-present morbidity-loving side of me adores this video. It stroked this side of me oh-so very kindly.

I hope your Christmas was as good as mine, if not better.

I like this 56: Happiness, Originality & Childishness

Dear Globlets,

I like these:

"Happiness is not achieved by the conscious pursuit of happiness; it is generally the by-product of other activities."
- Aldous Huxley
There are some people I know who spend too much time thinking about how to achieve happiness. I never think, I'm going to do [this] so that I may be happy, but rather make many small steps towards the things that I want - an education in an area (or two) for which I am passionate, for instance. That's actually all I'm doing right now. That's the closest thing to a conscious decision to reach happiness that I'm acting on. But when I write, I don't think about how it will affect me in the long run. Everything else is just stuff that happens - funny things, weird things, pointing out the illogical bits of commercials. We don't think, we just do. Well, we do think, but we don't think about how the thinking may or may not contribute to our own happiness. As a wise little green man once said, "Do or do not. There is no try."

"Originality is the fine art of remembering what you hear but forgetting where you heard it."
- Laurence J. Peter
This one reminds me of my "Life is But a Dream" short story. I saw the scene from a tv show or movie, but I couldn't remember which it is. 20 pages and one seed of a novel later, I wrote a story that no one has ever read before. It was a scene from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, globlets. From the unoriginal stems originality.

"There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes.
-Doctor Who

It makes me sad to think that so many adults forget what it's like to be kids. Some spend their whole childhood and adolescence promising themselves to never become like their mother or father, promising to never be so strict, controlling, apathetic, negligent, or stifling. Even so, countless grownups grow up to mirror the exact image they once wished to avoid. On the other hand, some turn around and do the exact opposite, or close to it. They've actually learned from their parents what it is they shouldn't do. They improve, which is how it's supposed to be. You're supposed to do better than your parents and your children should do better than you; this, don't forget, is not measured by wealth or success. Happiness is the most important measurement.

The happiest people I know are the grownups who don't forget to be childish sometimes, who don't forget to stop and laugh sometimes. It's easier to laugh at oneself once adulthood is reached. When you're a child, there's too much to learn, to be afraid of, to seek approval of. I'm not saying being an adult discontinues these things, but they're easier to deal with when a person understands them better and has more control over them. Taming them is a choice.

It is so important for adults to remember what it's like to be childish, to not be serious all the time, to not TAKE things so seriously because very little in the world is actually worth taking seriously. Life is short, as any adult may know. During childhood, life was endless. Don't you think that acting childish once in a while may improve your happiness? ...and, consequently, your longevity? ...and increase your desire to live longer? What if taking childish moments and stuffing them into your serious adult life would transfer some of that "eternal youth?"

Not that any of this will prevent you from getting hit by a bus someday, but hey! At least you'll have had something to live for and therefore something to lose too! Oh, wait...

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Merry Pastamas!

Dear Globlets,

There's something I need to tell you...

... I made a Flying Spaghetti Monster Christmas tree topper.

BEHOLD! The Flying Spaghetti Monster.

May you be touched by His Noodly Appendage this holiday season!

Playing with Fire on Bridges.

Dear Globlets,

Last week was the weirdest week. In a matter of days, I lost one friend over something completely ridiculous (although I predict the sentiment goes deeper than what surfaced late Monday night), I decided to stop giving another friend chances she doesn't deserve (or want, it seems), and I received contact from a former friend, a friend from what seems like many years ago. Certainly more than two.

Receiving the letter from her was quite surreal and unexpected. My grandfather opened the door and she handed him the letter. He told me to come to the door but I was in my pyjamas and I had a bird's nest of a hairdo; nobody close enough to me around whom I would feel comfortable looking like that would be at our door, so I didn't dare go to it. I got closer, saw nothing, my grandpa looked at me and said he thought he knew who that had been. He called her name softly. He closed the door and handed me the letter. I recognized the handwriting on the envelope. "For Oriana."
"Yep, that was her."

I didn't know what to think when I opened the envelope. I didn't know what to think when I read bits of the letter. I didn't know what to think when I read it more thoroughly. I have a better idea of what to do now, though - I'm going to respond.

I thought I had burned that bridge, and I had been sad to do so. But I was angry. A couple of months ago I reread the "letter" I wrote about her. I was ashamed to have spoken about/to her like that. I felt what I felt, but I'm ashamed of the way I did it. I didn't know what to do about it then. But that's the past. I've been afraid to contact her, and I never thought she would contact me again, but she did.

The memories confuse me. It won't be like it was before... ever. Too much has happened.

But, as she often used to say, "Que sera, sera."

PS. There's a song that has a bit of Doris Day's "Que Sera, Sera" in it and for the life of me I can't figure out where I've heard it or where to find it. Comment if you know,pls?

PPS. Found it.

Friday, December 24, 2010

I like this 55: Christmakwanzakah

Dear Globlets,

Oh my Lucy. I gasped. And lol'd.

At least it wasn't a puppy. Now they can wrap the baby up in bacon! Yum!
Babies in bacon! Babies in bacon! Babies in bacon!

Also, Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/Seasons Greetings/Happy Saturnalia/Whatever; I don't really care what you call it. I really, really don't. People need to get over whatever greeting they say this time of year. This is not worth fighting over/for. You know what is? Gay rights. Human rights. Freedom of speech. Racial equality. Individual equality. World peace. The best parking spot in the parking lot. The handsomest cooked chicken at Save-On Foods. The best seat in the movie theatre. The cutest puppy in the litter. But most importantly, the freshest and yummiest sushi in the province. We'll be doing the latter this holiday season. What will you be fighting for?

(Actually, I intend to fight for most of the things mentioned before "world peace" by writing here... :/ Because who cares about world peace anyway?)

Whatever you believe in, if anything: Merry-time-off-work (if you get it) and Happy time-to-pig-out-on-delicious-foods-and-give-and-receive-awesome-presents-and-be-with-people-you-care-about.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Cowardice and Nobility.

Dear Globlets,

I have been acquitted.
Or the charges have been dropped or a plea bargain was accepted or whatever.

In other news...
Below is another brilliant clip from The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. This relates to my previous post about passing (or not passing) a bill related to 9/11 first responders' health problems caused by breathing in so many toxicities at Ground Zero.

They showed a senator shedding a tear as he talked about his coworker, a friend, who was leaving the senate.
A first responder replied, "He said something very important... he's going to watch his friend walk out the senate chambers, which is, unfortunately, more than any firefighter can say about 343 of his brothers who can't walk any more."

Harry Reid wants people to stay and finish what they've started. Senator Jon Kyl of Arizona responded, "It is impossible to do all of the things that the majority leader laid out... frankly, without disrespecting the institution and without disrespecting one of the two holiest of holidays for Christians and the families of all of the senate." He's basically saying that he doesn't want to stay and work the week between Christmas and New Year's.
The same first responder replied, "It just goes to show the disconnect between those we elect to represent us and those who get out there to do the work because I'm here to say that you won't find a single New York firefighter who considers it a sign of disrespect to work in a New York City firehouse on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day."

Clip 2 of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, December 16.

I've always known that there were scummy politicians, but the extent to which their scumminess reached is much farther than I had previously thought. Just when you think they can't get worse, that they can't possibly willingly fuck the people in the ass with a pine cone any harder, they do just that.

If you watch the previous clip of the same episode, Jon talks about how few news stations are talking about this. They, especially Fox News, have talked about the building of a mosque at Ground Zero extensively, saying how bad of an idea it is. I don't understand why they choose that over this. I really don't. They have to make the party they support sound good and the opposing one sound bad... at the expense of the wellbeing of the American people.

But hey, what else is new?

Saturday, December 18, 2010

"Life is But a Dream" short story.

Dear Globlets,

For my final short story for ENG154 (Fiction), I took an idea that I'd had for a long time that I've been wanting to expand on. It was based on the last scene of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode (possibly season three, according to one of my ENG154 classmates who remembered the episode and linked it to the info I gave about my story). In it, you see the mom and doctor looking at Buffy in the hospital who is on the floor in her hospital gown and we, the audience, know that all the things she talked about (vampires, demons, etc.) was true but her mom and doctor don't believe her, and the question of which reality is real came into question. Everyone (the audience) knew that there were vampires and such because we'd been with Buffy every step of the way, but the possibility that it was all a figment of Buffy's imagination was still compelling.

I took that idea and, after many years of having it stew in my brain, after many weeks of planning it out, I sat down and I wrote it. As it turns out, the planning process wasn't super helpful. It was full of "maybes," so it was more a note-taking of ideas. Reckon I do better if I just sit and write; planning can be done in every other aspect of my life (spoken like a true Virgo), but maybe that's why I like writing fiction. It's spontaneous and I can make the unexpected happen any way I like.

It was to be 8-20 pages and it's about 20, double-spaced... So it's a little long, which is why I've decided to post it as a separate page on my glob. You'll see it at the top, titled "Life is But a Dream", underneath the heading "Globulations." I'd love to know what you think about it, so leave me a comment here if you can't leave me one on the page.

My intention was to leave the reader wondering which reality was real. I'm considering turning this into a novel, but we'll see.

I hope you like it, and may your mind be fucked.


Wednesday, December 15, 2010

The Issuing of a Promise to Appear.

Dear Globlets,

It appears as though I have just lost a friend. Again. (Not death.) He was my boyfriend for almost a year. When we broke up in late April, he stopped talking to me, but had recently started once again. According to him, that was a mistake.

I have many things I feel like I need to respond to in the e-mail he recently sent me, but I have been told not to reply to it. Forgive the drama, Globlets, but if I can't say it directly to him, I'll say it here.

Last week, he told me he had a shitty day and I asked him about it. This is how that conversation went:

Sp: "I'm tired of talking to you about my shit. I know you are tired of it too."
Me: "I'm not tired of the stuff a normal friend does like listen to the other's problems."
Sp: "What are you tired of?"
Me: "That's not what we're talking about right now"
Sp: "I want to know what you are tired of."
Me: "Now is not the time"
Sp: "I want you to tell me."
Me: "I don't want to talk about this right now."
Sp: "... Tell me."
So I told him. He didn't like it, and now he's disappeared and has asked me to refrain from contacting him in the future. I knew he was not in a good mood to begin with, and I knew that he could overreact to whatever I'd say, but I got angry with his persistence, and what I said was taken to an extreme I had not anticipated.

But I must have said some pretty hurtful things to warrant this kind of reaction, surely.
I told him I was tired of feeling like he was the boss of me, like he was superior, like everything was run on his schedule, of talking about the things we used to talk about when we were together and just as much as before (which was a problem that I had mentioned in April), of not having the space that I require and have requested, and of his overreacting to things. He took it as, "Sam, you care too much for me? Fuck off and die, I don't want to talk to you anymore."

The thing is, his very telling me to tell him something I didn't want to is an example of things running on his schedule, of him being the boss. He said what I said was not best friend material, a best friend would not say something like that, but what I said was never intended to be "nice or considerate or loving" because I was telling him how he made me feel. But apparently his feelings are worth more than mine. Apparently what I've said to him hurts more than anything he could ever possibly say to me, so he can say all the nasty shit he wants to me. When he says it, he's thought it through, but when I say something that carries an emotional weight, I'm being rash. Because I'm juvenile, you know?

I am more than willing to sit down and talk about how we've made each other feel so we can figure out a way to work things out. That's what friends do. That's what reasonable human beings do. That's what adults do. They don't run away because someone says something they don't like. I don't want to have to wait until he "calm[s] ... down & stop[s] being insane & stop[s] being mad at [me] for hurting [his] feelings & destroying our friendship." I want to fix this now. I am not going to wait around.

When we started talking again after the breakup, things were good. We would sometimes talk in the evening online and sometimes text each other about random occurrences in our everyday lives.
"Leggings should not be used as pants."
"Stupid girls should not get on the bus while texting and continue to text while walking really slowly to the middle of the bus, where they then block the way to the nearest seat which they could sit in but do not because they're inconsiderate dumbasses who have no respect for other people's time or awareness of their surroundings whatsoever." That was good. But over time, text messages came in more frequently.
"Good morning. How did you sleep?"
"What are you doing today?"
"How was class?"
"Talk tonight?"
"What are you up to?" And it got to be too much for me. In October, I told him it was getting to be a little much again, and he might have backed off a bit, but then he bounced back. He doesn't understand, it seems, that even though he lives in a different city, I still need more space. No, he's not constantly on my doorstep, but he's constantly on my cell phone. "1 new text message." It's not that I don't like texting, but I don't want to have to be tied to my phone 24/7. I don't know how to perceive his, "Hug. - Are you okay? - Oris alive? - Rawr - Dead," when I don't reply to his texts within a "reasonable" amount of time.

I appreciate the fact that he cared about me, but at the same time, I can't handle that kind of attention. Nothing says he can't care about me, I never said that I didn't want to talk to him anymore, I just want what we had these past couple of months in a more moderate dosage.

I want to hear about my friend's problems and some of the things he's up to, and I want to talk to him about my life too. I want those random "people are stupid" text messages, but I don't want to tell him everything about all the things I'm doing all the time. I want those Skype conversations in the evenings, but I don't want to come on every single night. I want to talk to someone who cares about me, but I don't want to have to worry about someone worrying about me all the time.

Maybe my idea of a best friend is incorrect, maybe what I want is unreasonable, maybe what I said was more than an expression of my feelings, but, despite all this, Sp still means a lot to me and that is a bridge I do not want to see burned. Unfortunately, he does.

As I said before, I don't want to live by someone else's schedule; I have my own. I don't want to abide by someone else's guidelines for a friendship. I have some say too. I'm not going to wait for him to come around this time. If he wants to talk, he knows how to contact me, but this is a limited time offer. Even if it is just to clear some things up, even if there is no hope for the existence of our friendship in the future, I still just want to talk.

For the most part, I disagree with the legalization of capital punishment, although there are certain circumstances when I think it could be applied. In a similar manner, friends fight sometimes, but I don't think this fight is worthy of a lethal injection. I believe in rehabilitative justice more so than retributive justice, and I also believe in a fair trial.

This is me requesting a court date.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

I like this 54: Jon Stewart vs. Politicians against 9/11 first responders' bill

Dear Globlets,

Jon Stewart is a brilliant man. I love him. Why are politicians such douchebags?

This is an excellent clip of yesterday's show:

They don't like Mexicans, they don't like gays, and they don't like 9/11 first responders. Wait, what?

Monday, December 13, 2010

Course Selection.

Dear Globlets,

When I went to register for my winter courses, I (along with many others, it seems) was extremely disappointed with the selection of Creative Writing courses offered. I wanted to take second year Fiction (ENG254), Non-Fiction (ENG152), and Scriptwriting (ENG158), but the only course they offered of those was Non-Fiction, and it was the ONLY Non-Fiction course and was even added late. I jumped on it while I still could, but there was some problem with my money going through and it took slightly too long and if it hadn't, I would have gotten in the course right away, but, unfortunately, I ended up second on the waiting list.

As I've said before, I'd been on the waiting list (I was fourth) when I took ENG092 in the summer, and I got in quite easily, but this was different. I only registered for two courses and waitlisted for this one, meaning that if I didn't get in, I would lose my status as a full time student and need to register for another course ASAP. Since I didn't want that, I decided to cover my ass today and switch around my Intro to Lit. (ENG160) class around so I could squeeze in Philosophy: Logic and Critical Thinking. This way, I'd still have three courses and could just drop one if I couldn't do all four.

So, I went to see how my waitlisted status for ENG152 was looking.
"You are currently not waitlisted for any courses."
... Como?
I scrolled down to see what this could mean.

Registered Sections

o 2011 Winter ART180 Modern Art History
o 2011 Winter ENG152 Creative Writing: Nonfiction
o 2011 Winter ENG160 Introduction to Literature


"ENG152?! Is it really you?!" Click. "It is! It's really you! I'm registered!"
That's how it went, pretty much. There was even cheesy music playing and everything. It was beautiful. I teared up.

I am so happy that I got in. I would have been devastated if I didn't get in. That would have meant taking three other courses I hadn't anticipated taking. Phew!


English courses currently being offered:

35 ENG150 Composition courses (Mind you, everyone has to take this course, so it makes sense to have a lot of them.)
12 ENG160 Introduction to Literature
1 ENG152 Nonfiction - There are eleven people waitlisted right now.
2 ENG154 Fiction
1 ENG156 Poetry
0 Scriptwriting
0 ENG254 Second-year Fiction

I like this 53: We No Speak Americano

Dear Globlets,

I like this:

Talk about good choreography. I really like the song too. It's just so fun!

Sunday, December 12, 2010


Dear Globlets,

I have some very good news to tell you, but before that, I must finish my story for ENG154. But before THAT, I must, as a procrastinator, do something else. Like globulate.

A couple of years ago (or so), I met Talina while I was working at One of a Grind Cafe/Bistro and she came in for either a peanut butter or ginger cookie. After some time, when I was already planning on leaving my job, she came in and I realized that it might be the last time I'd ever see her, which would have been a shame because I thought she was one of the most beautiful people I have ever seen in my life. She still is. Her beauty is so natural, it's incredible. I gathered up the courage to ask her if she would be willing to model for me and, luckily, she was!

Unfortunately, our schedules did not match up for the longest time and every time we tried to get together, it just wouldn't work out. A few months ago, around September, I asked her if she'd still be willing to model for me. She was! Again! So, we went to a nice park and I had a really wonderful time with her. She's a very nice person and, clearly, a fantastic model. We're planning on seeing each other again before the new year. I can hardly wait.

See why?...

See more:

Friday, December 10, 2010

Argument slut and freedom.

Dear Globlets,

Freedom is mine. Well, sort of. I still have to complete one last assignment for fiction by Monday, but other than that I'm free! From school. Until the winter semester. I'm secretlyish freaking out because I'm second on the waiting list for Non-Fiction and if I don't get into that, not only will I be very, very sad, but also screwed and will have to get into another course ASAP. I might cover my ass and switch around my Intro to Lit. class to another time so I can take Philosophy: Logic and Critical Thinking. :/ I've been on a waiting list before for a course - fourth - and I got in quite easily. But this time, when I registered online, a scary message came up that I didn't understand - something about a Thursday and people not dropping out soon enough and then I will be thrown into a tank full of hungry sharks, and I'm probably overreacting but I really need to get into that course. Can I send the prof an e-mail and explain my desperation and bribe him/her with peanut butter peanut-butter-chip cookies to let me in?

I have this strange compulsion where, when I see lipstick, I immediately want to apply it. Is this some weird childhood thing? /randomirrelevantthing

Now, the real reason I started globulating:

Pharyngula. I got a hard-on reading this, which is a little peculiar since I actually have a vagina.
This is an excerpt of a response from Pharyngula to a Christian, and it really was wonderful:
(Bold are Pharyngula's responses, of course)

"Could our few years on this planet be all that there is? [Yes.] You are born, live, then die and that's it? [That's what I said. Yes.]"

"...many believe Jesus has died for their passage into heaven [And many believe that Mohammed was God's prophet, and that praying to Ganesh will remove obstacles from their lives. Do you?]. Are all of these people (myself included, and I am a very well educated individual and deep thinker if I do say so myself[I don't believe you.]) delusional or weak minded or worse because the have faith? [Yes. Or lazy, or guilt-ridden and brain-washed, or fearful.]"

LOL: "I don't believe you."

Like I said: hard-on.

I really don't know what it is about talking to Christians and disproving their beliefs, however futile it may be most of the time, that turns me on so much. I just get so excited, and when I'm faced with that kind of situation, I find it very difficult to say no. What can I say? I'm a slut for arguments. It's the only drama I can handle.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Restless Ass Syndrome.

Dear Globlets,

I just decided that when I'm a more successful writer, I will have a giant wood desk and a giant comfy chair that will perform butt exercises on me as I sit in it. It's not as kinky as it sounds, I swear. They have those rather expensive shoes that help tone your legs and buttocks when you walk, why don't they have chairs that help tone your ass when you sit? That might cause a lot of people to have really fit bottoms and chubby tops, which would look pretty weird, but that's a small price to pay for buns of steel.

This came to mind when I was sitting on my ass (something I, unfortunately, do a lot of these days), staring outside, wishing it was summer so I could go outside and throw the ball around with my brother. (Like right now.) Sure, I could go to the gym, but the gym is half an hour away and I would have to go out into the cold to get there. I also don't want to go alone, and by the time my mom gets out of work, it's dark. Going to the gym in the cold and dark and then coming home in the even colder and darker is not that appealing.

I'm going to try and get my sit-up routine running again. We have weights too... somewhere, but our house is cold as well. It's my legs that I have the biggest problem with anyway. Damn. Now I'm feeling all motivated to be unlazy and pick my mom up from work and do sit-ups in the living room. But being lazy is so much warmer. This is hibernation time. Somebody bring me my nap!

The problem is, work is on the computer or telephone; writing is on the computer, and even if it wasn't, I'd probably sit for it; studying requires sitting; they have chairs behind desks in the classroom at school - I have little choice but to sit. Almost everything I do requires my ass to be planted in my chair, and now that it's winter, now that being cooped up inside is more pleasant than being outside, I'm getting a little restless. It's a similar restlessness to that when my room is a mess. I can't stand it when it is. It's like an itch that I have to scratch, and I have, in the past, feared that my head would blow up if I did not put my things away.
Hopefully Christmas shopping will cause some decent physical exertion...

I'm seriously considering going out to pick up my mom from work, but I'm afraid of the cold and the watery eyes and runny nose the wind inflicts upon me. I'm inside and I'm cold, how could outside be better? But, by Lucy, I love my mommy. Ugh.

I hope you enjoyed my deliberation process as much as I did. I did it while sitting, shivering and flexing my buttock muscles repeatedly.

One - two - three - four - five - and squeezehold! - two - three - four - five - and let go.
One - two - three - four - five - and squeezehold! ...

You might not think I'm serious, but ten years from now, I bet I'll look back on this moment while my ass exercises in my big comfy chair, and I'll laugh, and you'll think, with your saggy-bottomed jeans and boots with the fur (with the fur!), about that strange girl who suggested ass-exercise-chairs and how you should have believed her, because, ha! ...I'll be flexing my ass muscles in a country where the climate is warm and boots with fur are a thing of the cold.

Now, if you excuse me, I'm going to find my gloves and nose-warmer.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Car Thief.

Dear Globlets,

For Fiction class, I was to write a 3-5 minute excerpt to read out loud to the class. I got an idea from watching a man attempt to break into a car on TV (Lie to Me). What is depicted in my short story is no ordinary breaking-into-car (is there a better term for this I could use?). I had the initial idea that started with, "What if the guy is breaking into the car and another guy..." - well, I don't want to ruin it for you. And from there, the other idea was to - okay, never mind. I'll just shut up now. I don't want to ruin the surprises.

Car Thief

I’ve been in this business since 1994, even before I dropped out of college - that’s about four years now. The East Side hasn’t changed much in that time. Asians come here, god knows why, but they’re rich and they flaunt their wealth because their lives used to suck and now it doesn’t, or something, so the Mercedes is a symbol of their achievement. Woop-dee-doo. If you’re going to buy a $90,000 car, put in a decent security system. These people have more money than sense. But they always leave the best and weirdest stuff in their cars. Never trust a car with Hello Kitty seat covers. Fucking Asians. But I shouldn’t complain. They’re my primary source of income.

I break into cars during the day, wearing a suit and carrying a drycleaner’s bag. This way, if someone catches me, I can tell them that I’ve locked myself out of my own car and that I’m breaking into it using the coat hanger from the drycleaner’s. I’ve done it several times and only once had a guy seen me. He didn’t do anything, but I nearly shit myself because I’m usually a lot more careful with not being seen, and doing it during work hours doesn’t help with that, but at least I figured out that I could get away with it. Ever since then, I’ve suited up for the job.

Today I’m going to a parking lot in the basement of an office building. I have all my gear with me: a black duffle bag and the dry-cleaning. People have probably already gone for lunch and are now slaving away at their desks, glaring at their computers, trapped inside their tiny little cubicles, watching the minutes go by, waiting to go home. But I’m not. I’m ready for the adrenaline rush of my afternoon adventures.

I’m turning on hunting mode as I turn down an alley. I rely on my senses of hearing and sight, blocking out the unnecessary senses, especially smell – the alley reeks of urine. Luckily, the parking lot smells like gasoline and cement; they’re scents that are just as unmistakeable, but are far less pungent and far easier to shut out than piss is.

I come across a shiny new 1998 Lexus. It’s a sports coupe but it’s in fucking beige. Why bother going sporty if you’re going to be boring? I put on my black pleather gloves and shake my head.

“Somebody’s going to look real nice after Ben gives you a paint job, eh, pretty lady?” I rest my hand above the door frame on the driver’s side and I peer in. I set my duffle bag down and begin unwinding the brass coat hanger. From my duffle bag I take out a pen that has the tip of a screwdriver attached to it and squeeze it between the window and the door frame. Once the window is pried out slightly, I insert the wiry hook to flick the lock open.

Footsteps. My ears become sensitive to the sound and I stop. Heavy steps. It’s a large male. I have to stay calm, I know, but I begin to shake and my palms perspire instantly. Soon, my hands are swimming inside my gloves.

“Hey, man. What’re you… what’re you doing?” He stops near me and stares.
“I’m… I locked myself out of my car!” I laugh nervously.
“Man, that sucks. Do you need a hand?”
“No, no! That’s fine. I got it. I’m just glad I had my dry-cleaning with me!”
“It’s a nice car. What year is it?” he asks.
“‘98. Sports coupe.” I force a smile. My heart is pounding in my chest so loudly I can hear it.
“She’s a beaut. Now, where did I park my car?” The man takes out the car keys from his pocket. “I never remember where I leave it.”
I chuckle and nod.
“Sports coupe, eh,” he mutters quietly and turns away. He holds the keys in the air and pushes a button on the small black device on his keychain. I hear a nearby thlunk. But I also felt the thlunk. I look inside and see the doors had unlocked. My stomach turns. I look up at the businessman expecting him to do something stupid.
“Oh! Here it is!” He pushes past me to open the door. The screwdriver-pen falls down. I step back. He slams the door shut, turns on the ignition, and leaves.

I’m stunned. I feel my pants are wet. The stench of urine overpowers that of the gasoline.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

I like this 52 + Facebook.

Dear Globlets,

If you have Facebook, you can now Like me and receive messages when I post notes and pictures. There's a link on the side of my glob as well as right here. I had no idea that Facebook pages would allow me to post so much. I should have done this sooner. In my Fiction class yesterday we talked about publishing and self-promotion and having a Facebook page for yourself was briefly mentioned, but that's when it hit me! Why didn't I have one yet? So, I got home and I made one. Not everyone uses Blogger or the RSS feed option (why not I cannot say), but most of the world uses Facebook to some degree.

In other news...

I like these:
"If mankind minus one were of one opinion, then mankind is no more justified in silencing the one than the one - if he had the power - would be justified in silencing mankind."
- John Stuart Mill

It's 8:01AM and I only just finished my coffee. After reading this, I do not know what it means. I got about halfway until my brain started to hurt. Maybe I should consider taking drugs and trying again.

"The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found."
- Calvin Trillin

I just thought this one was funny. I'm glad my mommy doesn't do that.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

I don't like this #2: A Grammar Nazi's Derito.

Dear Globlets,

This pisses me off. Someone commented on a youtube video and said,

"...a derito

btw i probably didnt spell that right !"

No, *****babe82609, you did not spell that right. I'm pleased to see that you were able to realize that you might have made a mistake, but I am disappointed in your laziness and not taking action to figure out how to spell "derito" correctly. This does not surprise me as you didn't capitalize the brand name of the chip, the abbreviation of "by the way," the letter "I," or add an apostrophe between "did" and "not" which would conjoin and become "don't."

Normally I don't pick at people's spelling and grammar errors in comments on Youtube because I have much, much, much better things to do, but this one stood out to me. The "btw i probably didnt spell that right !" made me wonder: if you know that you made a mistake, why not fix it and learn the correct way of writing something so next time you know how to do it right?

If you were a surgeon, ******babe82609 (you know this is going to be good), and you made a mistake during a procedure and your patient only became paralysed from the waist down, would you say, "i probs did something rong here," and shrug it off?

Of course, Youtube won't fire you or prevent you from working in the field again, but it's something to think about. If you can spend a few seconds to write seven words after you think you've misspelled one of them, why not open a new tab on your browser, type "derito" into your google toolbar and hit enter? Unless you were really referring to "the largest brokerage firm in Arizona specializing in retail," you were right about it being wrong. Congratulations.

Since you still don't know how to spell "derito," try "derito chip." Hell, try "derito cjip" and you'll be directed to websites that indicate the correct spelling of Doritos.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

I like this 51: Caution in Love.

Dear Globlets,

I like this:
"Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness."
- Bertrand Russell

If the love is mutual and the love is real...

Monday, November 29, 2010

Contest Entry: My Queendom by Lucy Varas

Dear Globlets,

I entered a contest on the blog, Why Evolution is True. The entry consists of a picture and a 250 word paragraph about the cat.

The story is told from my cat's point of view. In case you don't already know, her name is Lucy Varas, she is a desperate housecat, and this is her story... DUNDUN!

My Queendom by Lucy Varas

My name is Lucy (Lucifer) Varas and I am the ruler of my queendom. I enjoy long walks on the roof, sitting on laps watching movies, the fanciest of Fancy Feasts – we’re talking Florentines - but tuna straight from a can is also an acceptable meal, as is raw fish of any kind. I have three humans: comfiest, warmest, least-likely-to-carry-me-too-long Mama; understanding, best-when-in-bed-and-immobile, most-likely-to-receive-food-from Sister; male who I have a soft spot for (I always purr for him), most-likely-to-carry-me-for-too-long Brother. My duty is to protect my humans. Any stranger who comes into my queendom will be put under surveillance and subject to many tests, one of which includes the “I will rub against your leg and make you think I have accepted you but IN FACT I HAVE NOT; you are the equivalent of a chair leg to me, imbecile!” And if the stranger fails this test, the punishment is a scratch-and-hiss. Scratch-and-hisses are the most common form of punishment in my queendom and only when I try to leave my queendom (temporarily) might I inflict this upon one of my humans. I am pleased with my humans’ understanding of my stranger-intolerance, as they tell guests, upon arrival, not to touch me, for they are not worthy. They should be grateful for being in my presence at all. However, many strangers have ignored these warnings and accuse me of being the guilty one, but this is, of course, nonsense. After all, this is my queendom and I meow the rules.

Note: No humans were harmed in the making of this narrative.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Thank you, Crayola.

Dear Globlets,

My friend, Kay, asked me what I was thankful for today. (She is SUCH an American! Who celebrates Turkey day in MOVEMBER*?) I don't actually recall holy crap it's late being asked that in the past - maybe in elementary school, but that was a while ago and I definitely bullshitted and said something stupid like, "I'm thankful for my favourite Jungle Green crayon, my friends, and horses." However, I am still thankful for that crayon. I never liked the colour green but somehow this crayon made it to my top-crayons list. #1! And there never was enough Peach to go around, was there? You always had to settle for Yellow, or worse: Orange or Pink, when drawing people. As a photographer, I now never experience this problem.

Although it did not include crayons, the quick list of things I made in response to Kay's question went like this:
I am thankful for not being a turkey.
I'm thankful for my education and the ability to question things without discouragement or punishment.
I'm thankful for everyone I know, especially my family, and for the experiences I've had throughout my life.
I'm thankful for not being born in a culture where religion and superstition restrict my life and/or freedoms as an individual.
I am thankful for my vagina.
I'm thankful for being abnormal; "normal people" scare the shit out of me and make me weep for the future of humanity. The coolest people I know are abnormal.

I just thought I'd share.

Maybe I never thought about what I'm thankful for... like... on purpose... because I was too busy appreciating it in other ways. I never sat down and declared to my family or to strangers what I'm thankful for because it's not just one day that I'm thankful for these things. It's every day. This sounds like the kind of bullshit you'd write in response to a school assignment titled, "Thanksgiving: What are you thankful for?" but I mean it. I don't have to sit and think about it because I know I'm lucky every damn day I'm alive, even during these cold, slushy, wintery Canadian autumns when I'm wishing I could be thousands of kilometres away... (Who's a good Canadian using the metric system? I am! I am! Yes, I am!) ...getting a tan. If you knew how pasty-white my legs were, you would understand my pain.

My brother is two rooms away and I can hear him snoring. Really loudly.

Come to think of it, I am thankful for Lucy not having crazy Simon eyebrows.

People always say they're thankful for their family, even when they're not. I am, though. But they know it. And I know it too - every single day. I love them.

No, this was not me kissing ass by demonstrating my ability to be a wonderful daughter/sister/granddaughter/person/thing attempting to get totally rad Christmas presents this year, because I really just want socks. I'm not even kidding. Normal ones. Not fuzzy ones. I have TONS of those.

And a nice apartment downtown. - A loft, preferably. And, of course, a manservant.

That's all I need to be happy: a loft, a manservant, and socks. That shouldn't be too hard to get, right?

*More on Movember to come... probably.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

I don't like this #1.

Dear Globlets,

I don't like this. It's not about being a prude or embarrassed or ashamed about your body, it's about your privacy. I'd go through the scan if I had to but I don't like the fact that I would have to if I wanted to avoid being groped by strangers. Some of the comments on the post are good too. I already have a problem with people who abuse their own authority (border guards, cops, etc.) and assault, harass or harm civilians, or rather victims (who doesn't?), and I feel like this is getting dangerously close to permitting ... or appealing to those kinds of authority-abusers. They're making it easier.

As bug_girl says, there has to be a better way.

I'd consider getting some of these:

This is a post from Skepchick:

Touched by a Stranger
November 16th, 2010 by bug_girl

So, I’m going to be flying several times over the next couple of months. And, as I’m sure you’ve heard, the TSA has now implemented a variety of different new screening techniques. From that article:

“If a full-body scanning machine shows something strange or a passenger declines to go through the machine… an officer will perform a more personal search. The examinations routinely involve the touching of breasts and genitals, invasive searches designed to find weapons and suspicious items.”

Folks are freaked about imaging technologies which seem to produce detailed NEKKID images of your body. (A company called Flying Pasties sells an amusing line of…well, shields for your naughty bits. Kudos to their marketing savvy.) There also is the issue that while the Feds claim they will delete all those images of you in the buff, apparently by “delete” they actually mean “stored centrally for an extended period of time.”

The full-body scanners also involve unspecified amounts of radiation, which several scientific and medical groups, not just the tin-foil hat types, have expressed concerns about. So, opting out of the full body scan seems like it might be a good idea. I’ve had a LOT of x-rays, CAT scans, and MRIs. I’m not Evil Knievel, but I have managed to break a lot of bones, particularly in my head. (Hey! Let’s not extrapolate!)
Anyway, on the advice of my doctor, I’m supposed to limit my exposure to radiation and microwave sources. Ok, simple enough. I opt out of the scan.

Except. When you give the technology a pass, you are now subject to a fairly intimate groin grope and feeling up. A lot of folks have said that if you don’t want to have the scan and fly safely, or accept that some strangers will have to touch you, then you should just not fly. The reality is, though, that for many of us we must fly semi-regularly as part of our jobs. It’s not entirely my choice to fly; I can’t take a week of work off to drive to California and back for a business trip. So, bring on the grope.

Except. I am a rape survivor. And I know that if I am forced to have the kind of circle jerk that I’ve seen on video–where a bunch of TSA screeners surround me and one of them touches me in very private places–there is a real chance I’m going to freak out. Traveling is always very stressful, in part because I have visual processing issues and epilepsy (see above; i.e, fractured head). Add onto that reliving a painful part of my past–someone touching me and I have no ability to say “I don’t consent“–I am not a happy traveler.

I’m getting ready for a business trip right now. I’m on the job hunt too, since I’ll be laid off next May. I’m hoping to make some important connections with these meetings.

Am I worried that I won’t make a good impression on the bigwigs that I’m going to meet? Am I spending time crunching data to make a good impression when I present my TPS reports?

I’m freaking out about just getting on the fucking plane. That’s what I’m spending all my energy on. And that’s not right.

For my friend with a colostomy bag. For my sister with a partial breast reconstruction. For the oh-so-many other women who have been raped or molested.

There has to be a better way.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I like this 50: Tampon Cozies

Dear Globlets,

If I knew how to knit, I'd knit tampon cozies.

This is a great article my mom shared with me:

FUNNY WOMEN #1: The New Rumpus Humor Column: I Am Sorry That I Didn’t Write a Comedy Piece
Wendy Molyneux - September 8th, 2009 - filed under Funny Women, rumpus original

The other day while sounding out the words on a Web site called The Rumpus, I saw this article asking for women to submit more comedy pieces. So I put down my giant chocolate bar, stopped crying, and thought, yes, that is what I will do.

I will write a comedy piece. But just as I sat down in my bay window (filled with pillows that I knitted myself while waiting by the phone for potential husbands to call) and opened my pink Mac laptop, I happened to see a lady walking down the street with a baby of her very own.

So then I started crying again because I don’t have a baby. I cried big rolling tears that fell down onto my “Mrs. Stamos” T-shirt that I purchased off of eBay and photographed myself in for my eHarmony profile. I always say, “Dress for the job you want,” and the job I want is being Mrs. John Stamos! So, once my shirt was soaked, I had to go change it. I walked into my closet, which is gigantic because women love to wear lots of expensive clothes and shoes all the time, and I thought, “I know what will make me feel better! I will feel better if I try on all my clothes and shoes to the tune of an upbeat Motown song such as ‘My Girl.’”

And so I did that. I tried on all my clothes, and I felt better until I tried on one pair of pants that didn’t fit me anymore. And then I totally started to cry again, because I am so fat. I cried for a little while on the floor while my cats crawled all over me, purring and being symbols of how lonely I am. My cats love to be symbols of my loneliness. Sometimes, I have to be like, “Stop signifying so loudly guys, I’m watching Grey’s Anatomy!”

At this point I still had not written my comedy piece written by a woman. So I went back to the window, opened my pink computer again and looked at pictures of cute baby ducks for awhile until I felt like writing. But then I remembered that I hadn’t made anything for dinner! Every night, I like to make an elaborate dinner. Then, I set it on the table and open all the windows. My fondest hope is that the wafting smells of a home-cooked meal will lure men who are passing by to come inside and eat dinner. And then after they eat dinner, I hope they’ll eat something else. If you know what I mean. Get it? Eat something. I mean dessert. I want them to eat dessert. Because the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Also, they are always leaving the toilet seat up! Am I right?

Anyway, twelve hours later after I had cooked, baked, cried, sewn a blanket for my hope chest, called a telephone psychic, had all my favorite Cathy comic strips laminated, and then stayed up all night trying on all my clothes and shoes again, I finally felt ready to write my comedy piece. I decided to start by asking myself, “What’s funny?” That is a tough one for me because I have no sense of humor. I mean, I assume that I have no sense of humor because all of the funny things that are made especially for women like me, such as Sex and the City, 27 Dresses, and yogurt commercials don’t even make me laugh. But I guess my humor deficiency is one of those womanly crosses I have to bear, along with P.M.S., making seventy cents on the dollar, and paying for my own rape kit. You know what they say though, you can’t make the willing pay for their own rape kits! I think they say that. Probably somebody said that. God knows I didn’t say it myself! I only say things like: “What are numbers?”

Oh, there I go again on one of my tangents. I guess it’s time for me to get serious about writing this comedy piece. Emoticon. I mean, I probably shouldn’t even try to write a comedy piece since Christopher Hitchens wrote an article in Vanity Fair saying that women just aren’t funny. He’s probably right. And even if he isn’t, I think it’s great that we live in a country where you can say anything you want, like that women aren’t funny or that Christopher Hitchens is a huge douche who runs a successful child pornography business and has an inability to get an erection unless he’s reading Nazi literature.

Well, would you look at that? I’ve totally run out of time, and now instead of writing a comedy piece, I have to go report to my regular day job knitting tampon cozies and being best friends with everybody.

Oh well, I probably would have been terrible at it anyway.

I like this 49:

Dear Globlets,

I like this:
"You can never underestimate the stupidity of the general public."
- Scott Adams

Sometimes I do underestimate it and then I'm surprised by it. I think I'm learning now, though, that some people, a lot of people, are just dumb. I might not have vast seas of knowledge cooped up in my brain, but I'd like to think I'm a critical thinker and a skeptic. I question people's words and consider the consequences of all actions. "If I do A, plus B, C would be... " That stuff isn't hard but it seems like there are far too many people who don't get it, and that's scary.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Can I Get a Ramen?

Dear Globlets,

That time of year is getting closer and closer - the race to get the best Christmas present ever and for the best price you can find just in time. Of course, two days after you buy your last-minute gifts, everything will be 50% off. (Which is why I want to celebrate Christmas the week after...) The countdown to Christmas has commenced and soon it'll be time to put up your Christmas tree. But what will you decorate it with? Candy canes and (empty*) presents? Trains and elves? Animals and angels? Perhaps. But will you put spaghetti and meatballs on your tree? Are you cool enough to praise our Lord Pasta? Are you Pastafarian enough to add the word "Pastafarian" to your Blogger dictionary AND put pasta at the top of your lit-up tree during the holiday season? If so, then you're like me.

If you're like me, and I'm like you, then you and I are like the lovely people who contributed to this blog! I feel a trip to Michael's coming along!!!

May your holiday season be filled with presents and pasta!


I like this 48:

Dear Globlets,

They are such sick fucks ... and I love them:


"The problem with the designated driver program, it's not a desirable job, but if you ever get sucked into doing it, have fun with it. At the end of the night, drop them off at the wrong house."
- Jeff Foxworthy

That would be pretty fun. I'd probably lose a lot of friends that way, though.

"Human beings are perhaps never more frightening than when they are convinced beyond doubt that they are right."
- Laurens Van der Post

See extremely religious people are refer to arguments people get into with them. What the hell is up with this sentence? I blame my cursor displacement problem. >:(

So much wasted time on that... although there is a part of me that still hopes that I presented ways of looking at their beliefs from a logical and reasonable perspective that will make or had made them question their faith even for just moment.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

In favour of the Rent is Too Damn High Party.

Dear Globlets,

I just added "globlets" to my dictionary.

In other news,

(Click to enlarge) (Teehee, if only it was that easy, eh boys? Well, sometimes it is.)

The rent may be too damn high, but so are our wages. $8 minimum wage in BC, baby. Lowest in the country. Victoria. Vancouver. Expensive places to live in. I think we're rather comparable to Ontario and Quebec, although I might be wrong.


Alberta $8.80
BC $8.00
Manitoba $9.50
New Brunswick $9.00
Newfoundland $10.00
NWT $9.00
Nova Scotia $9.65
Nunavut $10.00
Ontario $10.25
PEI $9.00
Quebec $9.50
Saskatchewan $9.25
Yukon $8.93


Did you enjoy my transition words followed by the picture/table as much as I did? I hope so.

The crucial numbers you'll see in the first image indicate how much I'd need to work to be able to live on my own. To survive, I'd need to earn $800. $800 means I'd need to work 20 hours per week at $10/hour. It'd be a miracle if I found a job that paid more than that. Now, tell me when I'd fit school in there and how I'd pay for it. Tell me when I'd fit life/friends/etc. in there and how I'd pay for that. Mhmm.

The secret code in the excel spreadsheet makes sense, doesn't it?

My options are:

Go to school full time and live at home.
Go to work full time and live alone.

Yay, life.

Holy Shit, Bitching, and other Curses

Dear Globlets,

Holy shit:

This is mindblowing technology. This is also rather terrifying. It's great for good guys, but it would be good for bad guys too in a bad way. This will tie in nicely with the globulation I'm going to post soon about technology. I wrote it, initially, for my morning pages (which I'm done with, finally!) for ENG154, but along with many other morning pages, I found it quite globulative.

Is Blogger going to let me schedule this post? It's been very frustrating lately because it's not letting me right now.

I think I'm going to go paint my and my mom's toes now. I can't believe I don't have a bright red anymore. Ugh. I looked at them too. I was at Shoppers and the red nailpolishes caught my eye, as if my subconscious was telling me that I should be purchasing one of them. I'm kind of sleepy though. And I feel funny. And Tentacles said something that I'm completely overreacting to. Obviously, I'm not really reacting to it but I perceived it weirdly and I've gotten emotional over it in a negative way, which is rather silly. And it's silly that I know it's silly but I still feel pissed off. Now he's going to ask me what it was and that he didn't mean it that way and I'll tell him I know because, obviously, I do. But still. (See?)

In other bitchings, there is something wrong with me/my keyboard. I don't understand how this is even possible. I've had my computer for quite a while now but only as of late, when I type, has the cursor done weird things. It moves and clicks on a different part of the page, which sometimes results in my typing on my desktop and therefore producing nothing, or it goes to a different part of the page I'm writing, or it'll select a part of a paragraph that I will then proceed to eliminate by typing a single letter, or the worst one... where it'll click outside of a text field on a webpage and then I hit BACKspace. Which means that unless the webpage is courteous enough to ask me if I really want to change pages after writing 3,000 words, everything will be lost because it simply goes back to the previous page. And the forward button will not make your 3,000 words show up in the text field again. That really only happens in Facebook, but all I can say is Thank Lucy for Ctrl+Z. I cannot even tell you how many times my cursor was displaced while I bitched about my cursor being displaced. Actually, that sentence might have been the only one where that did not happen. Now I'm just being super careful. I shouldn't have to be. (Jinxed it).

Are my fingers fatter? Is the mousepad on my laptop more sensitive all of a sudden? What do I do? I've already trained myself to not hit BACK when I'm texting in T9 on my cell phone (because it deletes EVERYTHING unless you're very careful, but you're always screwed if a text is coming in at the same time anyway). I don' want holy shit I almost just left this page. DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN? Probably not. AGH! And it just went into the "Labels for this post" field.

Right. So. I can do crazy shit with that video-mapping software thingamabobber but I can't type without my cursor displacements causing me to eliminate or misplace words that I write. And I swear I don't touch the pad, but it seems to think I do, but I don't mean just touch. I mean it clicks. I don't care if it moves around and dances and prances and donner and vixens! Wait, it's Blitzen. I always think it's vixen but I'm pretty sure Santa keeps that reindeer to himself. I DO care, however, when the cursor displacement fucks me up.

For example:
Currently in the "Labels for this post" field: aing re ni ME
I'm not kidding, Globlets.
OH! OH! Now it says: aing re ni s - just because I wrote the above sentence.

I'm going to go bald soon, aren't I?

Man, that felt good. RAWRAWRAWRAWR.

Friday, November 12, 2010

I like this 47:

Dear Globlets,

I enjoyed all three of Google's Quotes of the Day today (which is actually from Thursday but Blogger is a poo and lalala).

"If Pac-Man had affected us as kids, we'd all be running around in dark rooms, munching pills and listening to repetitive electronic music."
- Marcus Bridgstocke

Wait a second...
I love Pac-Man! Who doesn't? Now I want to play it.

"One never notices what has been done; one can only see what remains to be done."
- Marie Curie

See the latest election in the United Sates.

"From now on, ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put."
- Sir Winston Churchill

I just enjoy this one.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

FCA #7: Public Transportation

Dear Globlets,

For this assignment I was to withhold the most important detail of a story. For example, have a man and woman witness a murder but don't mention the body. I probably withheld too much - the type of transportation, the mysterious man/crash, and the reason the two girls were travelling together. I had a lot of fun writing it, though.

What kind of transportation do you think they're on? Ferry, bus, train, airplane...?

Public Transportation

Katy and Holly walked over to the pair of empty blue seats and sat down quickly. They put their small bags on the floor and slightly underneath their seats. More people stepped inside and walked past the girls. After some time, a rumbling came from beneath them and Holly shifted her bodyweight to accommodate the jolt she knew would soon come. It came, and once it did, she repositioned herself in order to travel more comfortably.

Holly sat on the right and scanned the people around her. She did not recognize anyone. There was a family of four nearby: a frustrated mother and tired father with their toddler and infant. Holly was grateful that the children were behaving. Suddenly, a loud high-pitched shriek came from the toddler. She decided she might have to suggest to the parents getting muzzles for their children when they were out in public. Maybe not the baby since it’s still pretty young, but the kid could probably use one if necessary, she thought. Holly couldn’t stand noisy children, but worst of all she couldn’t stand parents who let their kids get away with the most classic troublemaking. Nobody uses belts any more, she said to herself. She laughed quietly, pinching the bridge of her nose, realizing that she’d sound crazy if she actually meant that. Belts, she thought. Maybe those gangster-boy wanna-bes wear their pants with the waist down to their knees to show they’re against child abuse. They’re statements. Hah! If only.

Holly turned her attention to Katy who hardly looked at the other people. She stared outside, watching the raindrops fall and make clear paths through the fog on the window. She could not have seen anything beyond them.

“We’re never going to get there at this rate. We waited so long! Why do they even bother saying what time they’ll arrive if they come and go whenever they damn well please?” Katy glanced at the watch on her wrist. Holly wondered why Katy bothered to so often since checking the time would never increase or decrease the speed that the minute hand travelled at.

“I want to go home already,” Katy said. “We’ve barely left. I can look outside and know we’re still in the same bloody area. Can’t see much, but I know. Gosh, what is he doing anyway?”

“I think you need to relax,” Holly said.

“How are you not concerned about the time? Do you have any idea what time we’ll get there?” Katy put her head in her hands.

“Why don’t you read your book?”

“It’s bumpier than usual. I don’t want to get sick here.” Katy lowered her head to her knees. She couldn’t go all the way because the seat in front of her was too close.

“Here, have one of these.” Holly reached down and took out a small plastic container containing a variety of pills from her bag. “The little round white one,” she said.

“What is it?” asked Katy.



“No! It’s a mint!” Holly laughed.

“What are the other pills, then?”

“This is ibuprofen, this is Midol, and these are mints.” Holly pointed out the groups of pills. “I’m not a drug addict, I’m just well-prepared and I don’t like pain. Plus, I like to stay minty-fresh.” She grinned.

“You know Midol is just like a lot of ibuprofen, right?”

“Drugs are drugs. They could be placebos for all I care, as long as the pain stops.”
Sensing that Katy was not as interested in being minty-fresh, Holly closed the container and put it in the pocket of her hoodie. All of a sudden, everyone on board nearly jumped out of their seats as the trip hit a bumpy stage. Everything was bouncing and shaking for a moment.

“Jesus Christ! He’s gonna kill us!” Katy shouted and grasped her seat, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Katy, calm down! You’re going to freak people out.” Holly put her hand on Katy’s shoulder. “Lower your voice.”

“I’m sorry. I just… I don’t like travelling like this. I’m afraid of…”

“You’ll be fine. Trust me.” Holly rubbed Katy’s arm. “Just take out your book; it’ll keep your mind off things.”

“Thanks,” Katy said. “I was worried about doing this with you, but you’re actually all right.”

Holly laughed. “Thanks, I think? I was worried too, but you’re only half as bad as I thought you’d be.”


“I’m kidding! Valium?”

Katy smiled, but just as she reached for the mint, all of the pills flew up into the air and came crashing down on the floor as a huge bump shook everything on board. It caused the other passengers to scream and shout and grab onto whatever they could. Standing passengers fell to the floor, some landing partially on others’ seats. Hysteria spread like fire on gasoline, and it was the very smell of gasoline that had begun trickling in. The toddler cried and shouted for his mom while the baby started to wake up. Holly was glad to see that they were all right.

Katy began to cry. “I knew it. These things aren’t as safe as people think! I don’t want to die!” She plunged her back firmly into her seat and grabbed the edge of it so tightly her knuckles turned white. “This is why I hate travelling on them!” Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

The baby began crying and the little boy screamed. A second bump struck them, forcing everyone to abruptly shift forwards and then backwards. Shouting and groaning erupted from all around.

“We have to get out of here,” said Holly. “What are they doing up there? Why aren’t they using the intercom to give instructions?”

A large man in a blue uniform and hat stepped in front of the panicked mob. His black boots thudded on the floor and, acting like a gavel, silenced the passengers. His face was dark and serious, and his big arms hung casually but firmly at his sides. “Come with me,” he said. He turned around to walk away and people leapt from their seats to follow the man. Shouting, some people demanded an explanation for the disruption and others demanded a refund, to which the man did not respond. Katy got up as well but Holly thought it was strange to deal with such an accident in this way. No one knew what was going on, no one knew how bad the accident was, and yet they followed the man.

Katy shoved Holly. “Get up,” she told her. Holly obeyed, reluctantly.

Something isn’t right, Holly thought. Still, she followed the herd of people being led away from their seats. Something isn’t right at all.

Mark: 8.5/10

FCA #6: Separate Ways

Dear Globlets,

For this assignment, I was to take to lines of eavesdropped dialogue and incorporate it into a story. I had a lot of fun going out and eavesdropping on people and some of the eavesdroppings I got are ones I might use for future short stories. I love taking one thing - a piece of dialogue, an image, an object - and using it as a starting point, something to base the rest of the material off. I don't need much detail, but if I have something like that, writing comes really easy to me and it's very handy when you're out of ideas/brain-dead.

I've put the eavesdroppings in bold. This was supposed to be 2-3 pages but it turned out to be 7 when double-spaced. Actually, it might be 1.5-spaced. It's 3 pages-ish PER character. So there. I got the highest grade out of all my assignments for this one which I'm really happy about; the grade is indicated at the end of the piece.

Separate Ways

Now that Mike’s gone, this is my week to do my thing,” Sylvia told her friend on the phone, who laughed in response. “I can make it at that time. Relaxxx? The club? I’ll be there soon.” She hung up the phone and threw it on her bed. “Shit,” she said. “What am I going to wear?” Sylvia walked to her closet and flung the doors open. She began searching through her dresses and blouses; none were quite what she was looking for. “I have nothing to wear. I never have anything to wear!” She flailed her arms in the air. She grabbed several coat hangers full of eveningwear and threw them on her bed. She removed her jeans and sweater and tossed them both on the floor.

The first dress she picked was a plain black cocktail dress, cut slightly above the knee. She decided she wanted something a little sexier, something with more cleavage. The next dress was navy blue with gold buttons that were not meant to keep anything closed. Once she tried it on, she looked down at her breasts and decided that the dress was sufficiently low-cut. Picking shoes wasn’t going to be a problem; her black pumps made her long legs look amazing and they went with absolutely everything. She picked up her jewellery box from her nightstand and found a chunky gold necklace with matching earrings to wear. She walked over to her mirror to put them on. She looked at herself up and down, turned sideways, flattened her dress along her abdomen, looked at her legs and sighed. “I’m going to be cold. Fashion wins again.”


Mike got out of his friend’s green Dodge Durango and slammed the door behind him. He inhaled the crisp, fresh, forest air deeply and let out a sigh. “I can’t believe her sometimes, honestly.”

“Are you going to bitch about her all weekend long? I thought that’s why we came up here: to get away from nagging women,” said Mike’s best friend, Bill, as he closed his door.

“You’re right. Sorry, man. This was a good idea. Pass me a beer?”

“You’re drinking already? Whatever. I’m down.” Bill took out a red cooler from the trunk and set it on the pine needle-covered ground. He took out two beers and passed one to Mike. They opened their beers simultaneously and some foam erupted from the cans, but they managed to salvage it in time by quickly bringing the cans up to their mouths to slurp up the bitter micro-bubbles before they dripped down their hands. God forbid they would waste any. They took their duffle bags from the trunk and made their way to the log cabin in front of them.

“You know, we haven’t had sex in over two weeks,” said Mike.

Bill groaned and smacked his forehead with his free hand and asked, “What? How do you survive?” He dumped his duffle bag on the floor near the old brown couch in the small living room.

“This is serious. I have a woman that I never get to see naked, which is just stupid.” Mike chucked his bag on top of the couch.

“This is your week off from her, right? Why don’t we drive into town and visit the strip club? You’re missing titties, so we’ll get you some titties.”

“I miss getting laid.”

“We’ll work on it.”

The two men took several long sips of their beer as they stood around an old wooden coffee table that was stained with dark rings due to the absence of coasters in the cabin.

“You know what the worst part is?” Mike asked.

“What’s that?” said Bill.

“I might actually love her.”

“You need more beer.”


Sylvia was moving to the pulsing techno music among an ocean of young drunk people. Her long blonde hair swayed in all directions as she moved her hips back and forth. Her vision was compromised after having had numerous shots and a couple of ciders, but she was still able to pick out good-looking men to dance with. One got especially friendly with her later in the night; they danced and drank and laughed until two in the morning. Their dancing became progressively more intimate and they eventually found themselves making out against a wall in the club. His hands ran all over her body and through her hair. She pulled him close and finally he asked her if she would like to stay at his place for the night. Her head was spinning but she stared at him and smiled.
“Let’s go,” she said and they left the club.


“How does she even do that?” exclaimed Mike, gesturing to the mostly-naked woman who was hanging by her legs upside-down on a vertical brass pole on the stage in front of him.

“Who cares, man? Just look… Oh man,” said Bill. The two men stared and grinned while the stripper performed her erotic acrobatics for them. She slid down the pole elegantly, got on her hands and knees and began crawling like an animal towards Mike and Bill. Her bare hips swayed one way as her exposed breasts swayed the other. They began shouting and cheering her on, and she stopped to rub her hands all over her body. The stripper then crawled to the other side of the stage to please some of the other men in the club. Mike and Bill finished the last of their third round of beer.

Two women, a blonde and a brunette, approached the friends. “Would you boys be interested in drinking a couple of shots with us, by any chance?” one of them asked. They didn’t have to think about it for long; they said yes.

Sylvia walked up a set of steps behind the handsome stranger she had met at Relaxxx. He dropped his keys while attempting to insert one in the keyhole. Both he and Sylvia laughed and nearly fell back down the stairs but they regained their balance in time. He tried the key again and finally managed to unlock the door. They stumbled in. He pressed her against the wall and they began kissing once again, hands running all over each other’s bodies. Jackets, shoes, pants and underwear came off one at a time as they made their way to the bedroom. They left a trail of clothes that began at the entrance and went down the hall like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs in the forest. The house was soon filled with sounds of sex: laughs and squeals and grunts and moans. The windows in the bedroom fogged up and the alarm clock and books fell from the nightstand due to the shaking of the bed and misplacement of legs. The pulsing beat of the techno music was replaced with the pulsing beat of the headboard banging against the wall.


Mike dove with his mouth for the shot that was secured between the breasts of the brunette. They, along with Bill and the blonde, laughed hysterically as he gulped down the shot. Another one was placed between the woman’s breasts but this time Mike was unable to grab it in his mouth properly and he spilled it on her. He began licking and kissing the brunette’s chest, trying to slurp up as much of the liquor as he could, although he was paying more attention to the breasts than he was to the alcohol. She laughed and yanked his head back by his hair in a rough-love sort of way and kissed him. He grabbed her and they began kissing.

“Can we go back to your place?” she asked.

Mike turned to his friend who had started kissing the blonde and he tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. “Do you think I could bring this fine, foxy lady back to our cabin?”

“Are you kidding? We can’t drive. We can hardly stand up straight!” replied Bill.

“Right. I’m sorry babe,” he turned back to face the brunette. “Do you have any room at your place?”

“We’ll go to a motel,” she said.

“I’m going home with… sorry love, what’s your name again?” Bill said to the blonde.

“Candy,” she told him for the third time.

“I’m going home with Candy. I’ll see you later.” Bill made a shooting-gun motion with his hand and winked at his friend goodbye.


The next morning, Sylvia woke up with a headache and a sick stomach. She got out of bed slowly, just in case moving quickly would trigger an unwanted reaction and cause stomach acid to spew out of her mouth. She put her hand up to her head as if to try and stop the uncontrollable spinning she was feeling. She did not recognize the room. She saw a naked man next to her underneath the blanket and he definitely was not Mike. She looked at him and pressed her eyebrows together in confusion. A cool draft blew against her skin and she realized she was naked too; she decided to put on one of the white robes that were hanging on the closet door. Her stomach rumbled and she got up to find a bathroom, grasping her waist. After wrapping herself in the robe, she found a bathroom and the moment she saw the toilet, she ran to it, opened the lid and threw up. The naked man heard this, woke up and promptly put some pants on. He came over to see if Sylvia was okay and when he saw that she wasn’t, he went over to her and held her hair up so it would not get dirty. He rubbed her back in an attempt to settle her stomach. There was a break in Sylvia’s purging and he grabbed a nearby glass and filled it with water from the tap to give to her. Her hands were shaking, so he told her not to take it and he brought the glass up to her lips for her. Sylvia’s vomiting did not seem to faze the man very much and instead of being repulsed as she would have expected, he was helping her. She drank the water and her blue eyes started to water as she stared up at him. He took his free hand and wiped the first falling tear from her face.


Mike opened his eyes and was faced with a white empty pillow and a black radio clock that said 11:27AM. Without moving, he looked around the unfamiliar motel room but found no one else was there. He threw his arm to the other side of the bed and thought about the times he woke up to his beautiful Sylvia. He sighed and, thinking he was feeling well enough to stand up, he thrust himself up from the bed, turned, and sat with his legs off one side. His head throbbed and the room spun uncontrollably. He grasped his head in his hands to try and steady the spinning. Finally, he looked up and had a vague memory of an attractive brunette. She had been there with him. He got up slowly, and walked around the bed and then into the bathroom. He found no trace of a female anywhere. He sighed and searched for his pants. He picked up his jeans from the floor and, knowing he would have trouble balancing if he put them on standing up, he sat down to do it. Next, he put his shirt on but did not bother to button it up. He got up again, in search of his keys and wallet. He found his wallet but it felt lighter than usual. He opened it up. His credit cards and all the cash he had was missing, and he knew there should have been more than a few nickels and dimes left over from last night. He shoved his hands in his pockets in search of more cash but found nothing but a condom wrapper in one of them.

“That girl must have taken my shit! Goddamn it.” Mike grabbed the nearby phone and dialled Bill’s cell phone number. Luckily, this town was civilized enough to have half-decent reception, although there was a persistent crackle on the line. It rang four times and went to voicemail. Mike hung up and called Bill again. This time, Bill answered, mumbling a “Hello.”

“Check your wallet. That girl stole my shit,” said Mike.


“I just woke up. She’s gone now; she left this morning.

“Man, I’m sorry. Let me check to see.” Bill set the phone down and Mike could hear fumbling and groaning coming from Bill’s end. Bill shouted in frustration and picked up the phone again. “She’s got mine too. Son-of-a-bitch.”

“Do you have your keys? We’ll sort this out,” Mike said.

“So much for a week of fun. Sorry, man,” said Bill.

“Not your fault. I’ll meet you in town in an hour,” Mike said.

Mark: 9/10