Breakfast at Centre Mall

     I had been sitting in my father's car for thirty minutes. It was cold outside but the sun beaming through the windshield was starting to make me sweat. The driver's seat didn't recline so I couldn't even lie down. I was getting a cold and my head hurt while my nose run. I wished he would hurry.
     I had already texted him several times. He was on call for the intensive care unit and I knew he was busy, but he had told me to be there for exactly 1130 and I was starting to get antsy. This was one trait of many my dad and I shared: neither of us could sit still for longer than a few minutes.
     I checked my phone again when I saw my dad walking towards the car. He had his red backpack slung over his left shoulder and his hospital issue greens were too baggy on him. He tossed his backpack into the back seat of the car and hopped in.
     "So there's a diner down the street we can go to. I don't have very long; there's a family waiting for me that needs some info within the hour, but I can sneak out for a bit."
     My dad didn't have the attention span to wait longer than a minute to give directions and get moving. I took the car out of park, rolled down the windows and pulled an awkward U-turn to leave the hospital parking lot. We drove for a few moments in silence. I told my dad about my courses, how I had dropped one that seemed too boring and easy and talked my way into getting into one I had no prerequisites for. He laughed. I hadn't seen him in a long time, and my brother had just gone away to school. He missed us, I knew it. He had loved it when we were young and would spend all day with him, running errands in his old car.
   As we pulled into the parking lot of the nearby grill, his phone rang.
   "Hello?" A pause. I stopped the car and we began to get out. It was a normal occurrence for him to need to take a work call during a family dinner. "Yeah, we've been weaning him off of his meds all morning. What's that? Of course we called his family. They're on their way." Another pause; I could hear the murmuring on the other line. "He's been in a coma for two weeks now. There is no possible way he's waking up, and they've accepted that." Pausing again. "Just keep lowering his dosages and take him off of the IV. When I get back we'll extubate, his family can say their final goodbyes and then off he'll go. Yep. Yeah. I'll see you soon."
     We were already sitting at a table by the time he had hung up. "So what do you want for breakfast, miss?"
     Sometimes I wondered how he could do it. How does one exactly become accustomed to taking people off of ventilators? I put the question in the back of my mind and set my concentration on deciding between bacon and sausage.
    

Theory and Practice (practisssssss if you're a snake)

     This essay topic, like many of the others' I've written, is a tough decision for me to make. Being lazy, I'm compelled to say that I like theory more because it doesn't actually involve me doing anything. However, it can be fun to get a little messy every now and then. Reading a cookbook won't put tasty treats in your mouth, and it's one thing to learn about projectile motion and quite another to chuck a watermelon from a moving vehicle. This being said, though, I suppose there are certain things I really don't want to experience for myself, such as spontaneous human combustion or lead poisoning. I would also rather not have to experience a prostate exam if that can be avoided.
     I guess it really just depends on the circumstances and the person. I personally do not want to experience swallowing swords of fire, but some people do. This doesn't mean I'm not interested, it just means I'd rather learn from the safety of my home, thankyaverymuch.
     There are also certain circumstances in which it is impossible to practice and therefore only theory is possible.Travelling at the speed of light, that thing where they put the one twin in space and leave the other on earth to become old so his brother can laugh at him when he comes back as a twenty year old, and cleaning my room are all examples of this. These situations are hypothetically possible, but current circumstances prevent you.
     Some other things fall in the grey area of practicing theories. Math is an example of this: numbers are a human invention, but you can do mathematical equations and model tangible situations, like population growth and motion. Is practicing a theory not a concept that makes anyone else's head hurt?
   To be honest, I'm not sure I have enough experience with theories or practice to be writing this essay. So, that's all I have to say. I'm also fairly certain the children I'm babysitting are about to go Lord of the Flies up in here, so I shall leave on a quick note of things that I would never like to experience but would be interested to learn about.

-Forms of medieval torture
-Snakebites and their treatments
-Celiac disease
-Cancer
-Cooties
-Licking the muffler of a moving car
-milking a snake
-being baked into a pie (on the magic school bus!)
-being addicted to heroin
being a heron
and being used as a cheese grater (I have some sort of repulsion with cheese).

Words to live up to: Shit my nanny says

Please note: when I wrote this, I had been in the mountains for two weeks with no company except for people who did not speak english. When I’m alone I think way too much and get easily upset. The writing of this essay is what happened on one of those upset days.

Here is my essay:

            My grandmother has dementia. I believe it’s progressed to Alzheimer’s disease at this point, but at the moment I’m not so sure (this statement will make more sense later). At one point, she was the most important person in my life. She still is, in a way, or she would be, but she’s not really my nanny anymore. If anybody saw me on the verge of crying/crying/post-crying in c105 while writing my Leaving Home essay for writing, the next passage will probably clarify a few things about my behaviour that day.

            This essay was not at all what I had intended to write. I just have this irrational fear whenever I go somewhere far away (I’m in Italy while I write this, which explains its tardiness) that she’ll pass away and my family won’t tell me and I’ll miss the funeral. I’m crying and snotting everywhere as I write this, that’s how worked up I get. Jill can attest to how sexy my crying is… I guess you can say I’ll get you wet. You should see me now.

            Without further ado, here are some quotes from my grandmother (In chronological order corresponding to the progression of her illness)

• “Here she comes, Miss America”- singing to me when I was young
• “I’ll take you shopping and we’ll get a few nice outfits”- My mom worked more than full time when I was young and didn’t have a lot of time to take me shopping.
• “The reindeer and santa came while you were asleep and ate all the cookies. Blitzen ate that one there!”
• “I’m dizzy”
• “Oh, Fuck off Jack”- Jack, my grandfather, infallibly visits her in the nursing home every day. He tried to fake illness so he could get into the nursing home too, but he was rejected for being too healthy.
• “That Jack. He never comes to visit me.”
• “This is a nice house. It could use a little work but I think you should buy it” Regarding my parents’ home of 25 years.
• “He’s cute. Who is he?” Regarding my brother
• *Incoherent Italian Gibberish* Once fluent, she can no longer put a sentence together.
• “And who are you again?”

These quotes may not seem like words of expectations, hopes, dreams, advice or pedantry, but to me they mean so much more. They sting. Even thinking of my nanny hurts more than an obscene form of torture (think rolling around in a pool of open safety pins and then cooling off in a tub of vodka, rubbing alcohol and lemon juice). Her progressing dementia and increasing age (She’s 91 this august) should compel me to go visit her more. She lives a mere fifteen minute drive from my house. She’s my Nanny, the same one who had tea parties with me, picked out my clothes for me (I’ve always been hopeless with style), Changed my diapers, made me eat with a placemat so I wouldn’t spill, brought chocolate dipped cookies that her baker friend had let her make at his store, and rubbed my back when I was homesick.

My nanny and I were so close, and now she’s become someone else. It happened slowly, which hurt even more. Every millisecond she’s lucid (which admittedly happens less and less every time I see her) just makes everything hurt more. It’s a tease, and the idea of her getting better is so seductive that for a moment you forget it will never, ever, ever happen. Afterwards, reality hurts even more.

For this reason, I never visit her. I go when my mom invites me, which is rare, but I don’t go as often as she does. She quite literally goes religiously, every week after church. She doesn’t ask me to join because she knows how sad I get. Selfishly, I’m glad she doesn’t invite me because it means I have an excuse for not going. She always brings back funny stories about how my nanny, when asked how she was doing, said “Just ducky, dear.” She tells me about how she hits on hospital porters, and other funny stories, but never news of th einevitable: that every day she forgets who we are, who my grandpa is, and loses just a little more of herself.

The evidence is depressing. On mothers day, I saw a book she had made with a worker at her home. It consisted of an interview with my nanny and related pictures in a little scrapbook. In said book, my nanny claimed to to love Niagara falls, adore baseball, and claimed to have spent three years in Florida. None of the above is true. She pretends to know who you are, and makes up facts about herself and her family to prevent embarrassment. She will ask you who you are again, dear, before insisting that she make you her famous veal cutlets someday.

I hate myself for it, but I just can’t go. She’s gone and we all know it. I just can’t bring myself to face it or pretend that everything is fine. I wish I could tell her how much she means/meant to me, but she won’t understand, let alone remember. I wish she could be the nanny I know for even an hour so I could tell her. I wish she had developed Alzheimer’s when I was older so I could have had the ability/maturity to tell her what she means to me. I wish.

I love you, Nanny. I’m sorry for everything. I hope you’re happy, wherever it is you went. I still love you and I will love the stranger who has taken your place, but I wish you were here with me to have helped me pick out my prom dress and to make me eat with a placemat just one more time.

Kids' stuff that's STILL AWESOME

Kids stuff that’s still awesome

As I am currently babysitting for the summer and have been told I have the brain, diet and humour of an eight year old boy, I consider myself to be somewhat of an expert regarding kids' stuff. Here is an extensive list of the things that are socially acceptable for five year olds and why you should enjoy them too.

• Picking your nose: I know you do it. I know that every human being has or does. When I was eight I was teased for picking my nose. I was embarrassed, but I should have wiped it in the kid’s face and jerseyed him. Picking your nose is satisfying and it feels great to breathe. I know you do it. There’s no need to be shy. We all know it’s fun/worthwhile.
• Naptime: I LOVE NAPS. They mess up your sleep schedule and sometimes you fall asleep at 4pm and wake up at 2am ready to seize the day, but nothing feels better than a nap when you’re exhausted. It’s nice to get cuddly on a rainy day, read a book and doze.
• Colouring
• Collecting rocks
• Believing in Santa and writing him letters
• Climbing trees
• Party hats
• Getting really dirty and not caring
• Playing
• Slushies
• Board games
• Pokemon
• Spongebob
• Bubble baths with toys
• Cuddling
• Holding someone’s hand when you cross the street
• Playing Pretend: one thing I regret in my life is losing my imagination. I feel like school is made to train it out of us, and this makes me very sad. When I was four I could amuse myself for hours with a table and a blanket. I would be on a space journey, living in a cabin in the woods, in the stomach of a zebra, hiding from a kidnapper, etc. I’ve lost this and it makes me really sad.
• Crafts: I love finger paint, making things out of clay, and construction paper. When I babysit, I often have more fun that the kids I’m watching. One of my best friends and I skipped our on previous plans to stay in and make earrings out of clay and paint. Nothing is more fun and relaxing than good ol’ arts and crafts.
•  Birthday parties and loot bags
• Braiding your friend’s hair
• Baking cookies with dad
• Growing taller
• Kool aid
• Staying in your pyjamas all day
• Making forts
• Running through a sprinkler on a hot day
• Dunkaroos
• Ice cream and waffle
• Sitting on a really high chair and dangling your feet
• Snowball fights
• Kids combos at the movie theatre
• Candy
• Poptarts
• Icing straight from the jar
• Sleepovers at Grandma’s house
• Asking people “are we there yet?” when you know you’re nowhere close
• Jumping in leaves
• Baskets on bicycles
• When people bring cupcakes to school on their birthday
• Kinder surprises
• Cumball machines
• Skipping rope
• Blowing bubbles
• Shirley temples
• Bedtime stories
• Playing with your food
• New pencil cases with all new sharpened pencils
• Beads
• Safety scissors (So colourful and safe!)
• Happy meals (Just enough food AND A TOY!)
• Catching bugs
• Fake food
• Grass stains
• Cartoon character bandaids
• Pressing flowers
• Easy bake ovens.

Go do all of these right now. Thank you.

Vices I Admire

            To be honest, I enjoy and admire all vices to some extent. There are a few I don’t respect, such as greed, pride and vanity, but there are a few that are just plain fun.

Please note: the following passages were made in a factory that processes gratuitous use of the word “fuck.” If you are squeamish, have sensitive retinas or photographic memories, please do not read the last section of this essay.

Gluttony: If I had unlimited amounts of money for food and stretchy pants (which you must wear in your room sometimes, just for fun), I would be all over this gluttony shit. There is nothing more satisfying than eating obscene amounts of food. I live for all you can eat buffets (when I remember to eat) and once ate an entire box of cereal and a gallon of milk just so my mom wouldn’t throw them out. My goal in life would be, if it were socially acceptable and fiscally responsible, to eat myself into the ground. Unfortunately I barely have enough money for rent and will not be able to do this. If only I could afford to be the thousand pound lady at the circus or the morbidly obese man whose life is built around the festive special at Swiss Chalet. I’m currently working as an au pair in Italy, and people here do not like to waste food. They do not throw anything out and consider it rude if you don’t finish what is on your plate. I am so happy here. Yesterday there were an extra three plates of pasta leftover from lunch. The family was mad at the kids for not eating enough. I was happy with them and more than willing to finish them.

Lust: I find odd things fascinating. Lust is one of these things. I could never become someone who goes around having casual sex with dozens/hundreds/thousands of partners (I wonder what the world record is for that, though), but twenty points for nymphos. I think it’s awesome that you’re so comfortable with what you want and aren’t afraid to risk having a baby or contracting a disease to get it. I’m not a very sexually comfortable person. To some extents I am, but I still laugh during any sex-ed and crack up reading cosmo. For an example of this, please google the “passion propeller” sex position. I wish I were more comfortable with this type of stuff. I would wear sexy lingerie under all of my clothes just in case (Superman/Superhoe style) and give out lube and condoms for birthday gifts. I would give ten points to Tila Tequila, because she likes to fuck so much she wrote a song about it. We would be bffls. But that will not happen any time soon, so ten points anyway.

Sloth: Lying around and doing nothing all the time is so satisfying. I am a firm believer in sleeping past noon and never walking when you can drive. I have not exercised with the intention of exercising in over a year. I would love to be able to have unlimited money for food and supplies, a mountain of movies and books, servants and people to visit me. I would essentially be paid to sit on my ass and I would be extremely good at it. If I got paid a nickel for every time I could have done something productive and didn’t, I would be a friggin millionaire.

Wrath: I fucking love when people are angry and don’t give a shit. I don’t like it when they’re flipping out every two seconds, but I love in the movies when the shy girl goes “FUCK THIS NOISE” and goes Kill Bill on everyone. I’ve also kind of always wanted to get into a fist fight, just to see what it was like. I think it would be really fun and I think I could rock a black eye. Another odd thing I find interesting is raw human emotion, and anger is one of the most interesting of these. It may be trashy, but I will reward another ten points to the girls who get into fist fights at bars and yell to their friends “YO GIRL HOLD MA HEELS IMMA FUCK THIS BITCH UP.” As long as you don’t kill each other, good for you! Knock each other the fuck out, jock on each other’s bitch asses, and do as you please.

            This may be against the first and second rules of the establishment, but I would  be more than willing to coordinate some type of fight club. We could all bodyslam and tackle each other to relax after exams and studying. Plus! Pain releases endorphins in your body and this helps relax you (Fun fact! This is believed to be why people self-mutilate, such as cutting: it is believed to be self-medicating for pre-existing conditions, such as depression, as the endorphins released from the pain temporarily relieve the symptoms of their conditions). You know my phone number.

            I also kind of wish it were socially acceptable for girls to play fight without the premise of Girls Gone Wild 6. I’m jealous, oddly enough, when I have to drive my boyfriend to the emergency room for a slightly dislocated shoulder from a 280 pound friend’s tackle.

           

            In summary, if you are a huge skank, eat so much you’re a human punching bag, move so rarely that people mistake you for a beanbag chair, and actually get used as a punching bag and beanbag chair of sorts, or you use other people for the same purpose, good for you! I’d love to talk to you and break the first and second rules of fight club. Come find me!

Virtues I Abhor

I’m not exactly sure if neatness is considered a virtue. But I generally consider virtues to be behaviours that are far beyond my abilities, such as mind-reading, waking up early, not swearing, etc. For this reason, neatness is a virtue for me. However, for the sake of clarity it will be defined as follows:

-General anal-retentive tidiness

-fastidious, over-zealous scheduling (i.e. my aunt who plans Christmas dinner one year ahead of time)

-Having a straight piece of wood inserted into one’s rectum, i.e. being uptight.

            Before I commence with the rest of this essay, please take note of the following statement: I do not hate tidy people. But sometimes I want to shred your agenda and rub a dirty sock on your computer. I want to break a pen in your backpack, ruin your diet and slip you some hard drugs. I would never do any of these things on purpose (I make no promises about the socks, though) and generally have nothing at all against people who are neat. In many, many ways I probably just hate overly neat behaviours because, for whatever reason, I have an immense amount of difficulty getting my shit together. I can’t focus, read too many books instead of doing my homework, lose one sock out of every pair, forget to eat/eat way too much, etc. I am so jealous of the fact that you can actually wake up, eat breakfast, get dressed and get to 9:30 class on time. On many days, I cannot manage this for 4:30 class. One day I woke up at 4 (not from a nap, either) and went to calc in my pyjamas. I really respect you, people who have their shit together, ten points and bear hugs all around.

            However, when I really start hatin’ on neat people is when I can tell they’re not having any fun and hate their rigid lifestyle. If you love having your entire life scheduled, adore your sunrise jogs and can’t fathom life without your no-carb vegan diet, go for it. You can tell when someone is actually happy with their routine: they have a tidy, neat glow about them. There is something off with people who don’t enjoy what they’re doing, though. It seems like they only have fun when their life is under control. People who are organized and happy know how to let loose and don’t let their routine control their life: a routine is not something they have to do, they just like to do it. They don’t pull their hair out over missing six minutes at the gym or missing one calc lecture (believe me: you can miss most of them and still pass). If you end up institutionalized over a lost eraser, though, I’m tempted to slip you a lot of hard liquor and let the real problems bubble uninhibited to the surface. When your life becomes one giant compulsion, then you know something’s up and you’re going to crack eventually. I guess the reason people who schedule every bathroom break bother me is because I wish you could just face whatever is bothering you. People with compulsive behaviours are usually just bothered by something else that’s beneath the surface and their control their lifestyle to control these factors they cannot control. Correct me if I’m wrong, but 14 year old me who did 7 hours of homework every night and went to bed every night at exactly nine thirty because of parental pressures doesn’t think people without something bothering them do this on a normal basis. Normal people also don’t write convoluted sentences such as the one preceding this.

            I guess, any over-organizer who may be reading this (though I’m not sure there are any in this essay challenge [i.e. artsci and Alec’s friend {hey!}]), I want you to know that skipping the gym to go for ice cream can be a jolly old time. If you break your schedule once you won’t die, the world won’t explode, you won’t fail your classes or gain 4000 pounds. Coming from a messy room, a girl who forgets to eat, wake up, and sometimes to shower, everything will be ok. Maybe a little messier, but there’s nothing wrong with that if it means you’re happy.

Ideas I've Outgrown

My mind is an odd place to be. Think about a super-speed radio set to scan with a TV on loudly in the background and three hundred people talking to you about different things. While all of this is happening, you are trying to do one of those double-sided puzzles in thirty seconds. Your house is also on fire and you are in charge of determining what to take and saving all fifty of your families hamsters. The hamsters are also on fire and you have to feed them handmade jellybeans to make them safe to handle. You are also on a unicycle during all of this. You are probably also on some sort of upper, and your heart is going a bajillion beats per minute and you can't focus because you're singing showtunes in your head.

Welcome to my mind. My mental adventures used to be so bad that I couldn't sleep at night. My parents tried to make me listen to "Sounds of the Sea: Soothing Selections Part 2" and "Harmony: the Music of Nature" to help me fall asleep. They tried giving me warm milk, cold milk, bananas, turkey, bribes and hugs, but nothing worked. My nine-year-old mind was going at the speed of light and they couldn't stop it. I was fairly convinced that I had ADD or some sort of brain tumor. When my viBRAINtions (see what I did thurr?) became so bad that I was confined to a couch and was only able to swallow two pieces of pasta before feeling ill, my parents knew that something was wrong. They started taking me to people to talk about my anxiety (so that's what it was! That's not such a scary word to say; please don't judge me for saying it. I have an anxiety problem and probably always have and will. That makes me no less badass. Just making sure you're aware.) problem. My doctor was a lady who let me play with chalk and markers. I liked her. After a while I was managing very well, playing soccer, hanging out with my friends and wasn't confined to the couch when the static became too hard to handle. We said goodbye to my doctor and hello to middle school. Yes, I was one of those mixed up kids shuttled from therapists to soccer in their mom's minivan.

Anyways, my anxiety waxed and waned but never truly went away. I spent my ninth grade in a constant state of unease. My tenth grade was a mess of social anxiety, my eleventh grade was full of a general buzzing in my head that led me to do stupid things, and my twelfth grade was spent in a state of insomnia.

I used to think that I could just pop a pill, talk to a dude with glasses and a clipboard and I would be alright. I just knew that one day there would be a switch that flipped in my head and I would be just like everybody else. My mind would be peaceful and I would finally be able to function normally and be happy without stress. (Just so you know, my mind is such that I can't ever truly relax.) I hoped that once I turned 16 I would be a normal teenager. When that failed, I longed for my seventeenth birthday switch into peace. Like waiting for your Hogwart's acceptance letter when you turn eleven, I was constantly disappointed like I was checking the mailbox every day to no avail.

After a few more years of having to constantly stay moving, always needing to have a book on me in case I was forced to sit and wait, and counting things by threes to stave of the impending boredom and buzzing when I was forced to sit still, I was completely resigned to the idea of ever getting "better."I still am completely resigned to this idea. I will probably never be "normal." I will never be able to sit still without jiggling my foot or becoming terrified of the noise in my head. I will definitely never be able to feed the jellybeans to the hamsters without falling off of my unicycle while the house burns down.

You know what?

I'm alright with this.

It may not be pleasant, but I've learned how to turn down the volume on my mental radio. Instead of obnoxious NYAN CAT!!! all the time at maximum volume, it's turned down to a Beatles song (Penny lane?) at around medium volume.

And while my mental radio might be too loud to allow me to get great grades in school or sit still for long enough to finish a project to my satisfaction without working at 234929587 miles per second, I have come to love my mental radio station. Even if it is staticky and frustrating at times, it makes me the way I am. Because of my buzzing I can work really fast. I can understand concepts easily (No idea how that one works), I can learn relatively quickly and I have an interesting mind-video going constantly. It's like a documentary about pictures you find in peoples' recycling bins and trying to recreate a story from them.

It may not be pleasant, but I've come to love it. It's like having a little scar that you come to appreciate. It gives me character and I guess that, while I may not have gotten my letter from Hogwarts, I'm okay with that.

Scratch that. I'm more than okay with that.

I'm off to feed some hamsters now.

Cake vs Pie: this could get messy.

I am very passionate about cake. It would be very easy for me to simply say, "Cake is better and pie sucks. The end, xoxo Gossip Melissa" and leave it at that. However, logic and dialectical disputes have taught me that you must consider each side of the argument. For this comparison, see below plz:

Cake: Pros:
-Creative License: you can get very creative with cake. Ultimate Cake off, Cake Boss, Cupcake Diva's and Ace of Cakes are all Tv shows. For some reason, this doesn't quite work the same way with pie. Creativity is important, and cake is very conducive to imagination. See here, plz. And here
- Tasty Options: Cheesecake, ice cream cake, petit fours, cupcakes, smores cake, orange creamsicle cake, nutella chocolate chip banana cake, cookie dough cupcakes, poptart flavoured cupcakes and countless other choices are available for cake. There is also the option of including mousse in the filling, creating a mixture of cheesecake and cake, including chocolate and fruit, becoming adventurous with mediums (I saw a cake made of meatloaf), and making a cake with different flavours in each area (think half-creamsicle with raspberry bottom? Ooh la la)
-Emotional Significance: Who the hell has a wedding pie? How do you celebrate Baby's First Birthday with a piece of cherry pie? Can you resign from your job with a cake? A man named Neil did that. For some reason, stating that you're going to blow out the candles on your birthday pie does not quite carry the same connotations as saying I'm going to go have birthday cake. This could change, but it has become assumed knowledge that Cake is the way to go for celebrations.

Cons: Storebought cake can taste stale, and if a cake is not made right it pales in comparison to other desserts. I always say that if you hate cake, you've never had a real cake. To be honest, I don't always say that. I just made it up. But it's true.

Pie: Pros:
-Pie has lots of fruit. Fruit is nice.
-Pie crust is Delishdkfusd

Cons:
-Crust is the best part of pie.
-Cooked fruit is slippery and gross. Fruit should be eaten in natural form, not cooked into a mush for a toothless wonder.


There. Problem Solved. However, if you're feeling in the mood for a compromise, you should look into making a delicious treat that involves cookies, cakes, and pies.

Music that Moves Me

This essay is also a tricky one for me to write. Showtunes are generally my go-to tune, but there are two different albums that have completely changed the way I look at my life. Hurr wee goh:

-Hospital Music by Matthew Good: Matthew Good was diagnosed with bipolar disorder after overdosing on pain killers in his shower and being admitted to hospital. During his time in the hospital, he wrote this hauntingly beautiful album. The songs are written in such a way that you really feel what he was going through. His lyrics are beautiful, and the songs stay with you for a long time after you listen to them. See here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L3yISjGHGQo to get an inkling. Not only is he Canadian (ten points for you, glen coco), his music can actually speak to you. Is this not what music is for? Especially since I have some morbid obsession with psychiatric hospitals (see my Useless Knowledge essay), this entire album just amazes me, regardless of how many times I listen to it. His website used to have an entire illustrated history of his struggle with bipolar disorder and included the backstories of a few of his songs, but it got deleted when he released his new album. While I wish I could include this to give you a little more information about how complex this album really is, I can't. So just trust me, k?

-Jackson Square by Arkells: they are from Hamilton. I've lived in Hamilton my entire life and love this city more than I can admit. Arkells went to Mac and lived on Arkell street (woo, famous!). While (correct me if I'm wrong, it's been a while since I did my research) none of the members of the band are originally from Hamilton, they found the beauty in the smog and dust that I've been trying to explain to people for the past few years. They wrote an entire album dedicated to/inspired by the city of Hamilton, and I am so happy. "Abigail" is based on an overheard conversation in the Jackson Square food court and "Oh, The Boss is Coming!" is based on working at East Side Mario's in University Plaza, for example.  While most of this album deals with relationships and life at university (Mac wooo!), it still gives you a perfect taste of being a teenager/"young adult"/almost-grown-up and how this is affected by life in Hamilton. I also listened to this album during one of my favourite summers, and the songs all have happy memories associated with them for me. Furthermore, my extremely drunk boyfriend decided that "I'm not the sun" was our song one night. All in all, one of my favourite albums.

Lights, Camera, Action! One Movie Everyone Should Watch

Big Fish, Big Fish, Big Fish. I was obsessed with this movie for an extended period of time. For some reason, the tale of a man and his tall-tale telling father makes me so happy and hopeful and inspired.
Here is a synopsis: Man goes to see his Papa. Papa is dying and has spent his whole life telling lots of extremely unbelievable stories. Papa dies. All stories turn out to be a little bit true.

For some reason, this movie gives me an appreciation for the extreme storytelling and fables of past generations. Seeing them acted out by Ewan MacGregor (I don't know if you spell his name like that, but I do know that our love will blossom and grow over the years to come, and we will date happily before Daniel Craig takes notice of me and I have to make a life-wrenching decision and end up marrying my arranged husband because my dowry finally comes through) in such beautiful special effects really makes you feel like you're there. You almost wish that your life could be as big as the life of the characters in this movie. Honestly, I have nothing but good things to say about this movie. You need to watch it for yourself.

One Book Everyone Should Read

Sweet baby Jesus in a tuxedo t-shirt, this essay is going to be tricky business. Not only am I very indecisive, I am certain that I've read four times my weight in books (in case you're wondering, that's a LOT). So, instead of writing a nice essay about one book you should read, I'll write about several different categories from which everyone should read at least one book.

-A book so painful to read that it takes you several years, a bottle of tylenol, a mental break and a few tears to finish it: I'm a firm believer in finishing what you start when it involves books. Usually the painful books teach the best lessons. Examples: it took me three years and four attempts to finish Wuthering Heights (sheer boredom and despising Catherine and Heathcliff did not make this easier); Blindness by Jose Saramago (I hated the book so much that I have no idea if that is how you spell the author's last name) took me over a year to read because I found it extremely dull; and I had a book from the library for so long because I couldn't finish/start it that I had to pay 30 dollars in overdue fees (that's two years of fees, FYI). My grandma said that, in boarding school, her teachers insisted that even awful books should be finished. She said that her teachers told her that reading painful books make you appreciate good books even more, and that this process teaches you willpower and diligence. My eleven-year-old self did not approve of this as she returned several unfinished library books. However, forcing myself to read painful/difficult books has taught me a lot. I realized that translations can be awful if said translation is not done properly, sometimes the most difficult books are the best (Wuthering Heights is one of my favourite books), and that sometimes the overdue fees are worth it (finishing the two-year-overdue book really made me appreciate the importance of due dates and keeping your bank account stocked with some contingency money). 

- An historical fiction : I hate historical fiction. There, I said it. I hate hate hate it. However, in grade ten I had to read one for a project, and I managed to find one that I liked enough to endure (The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak, is meant for thirteen year olds but I still recommend it to everyone because it is just that great. He has quite a nice style. Back to the topic now.). Although I generally don't enjoy this genre, there is nothing quite like feeling emerged in the time period and actually "experiencing" what life was like for the characters (and would have been for you). Because of historical fiction, I learned that I would never like to be a geisha or someone in Nazi Germany. I feel like that, along with learning about what other time periods could have been like, is a valuable lesson. 

-Books from those lists of books you "should" read: these lists, found in great quantities online, in magazines, and through StumbleUpon, usually feature books that you may not feel like reading. They are generally full of classics, modern classics, banned books, and books you were forced to read for school. You may groan when you see these lists (I used to; I was too cool for school and didn't like some librarian telling me what to do) and may not want to read these piles of books because someone says you should. However, I generally find that there are good reasons that you "should" read these books. They're usually considered classics for a reason, and aside from Blindness (see above), I have yet to be disappointed by a librarian's recommendation. Speaking of recommendations, see below. 


-Your best friend's/mom's/dad's/brother's/sister's/uncle's/hairdresser's/librarian's/teacher's/meat vendor's/Cutco© salesperson's favourite book: while the book that said person recommends may not be something you necessarily jump at the chance to read, I find that recommendations generally give you a most excellent opportunity to get a great insight into the person's inner workings. I think books contribute many opinions, thoughts and morals to a person's mind, and reading a book that they love or that has changed their life in a major way shows you a side of them they may not feel comfortable showing. I do my most thinking while I'm reading and in the shower. Because you can't share a shower with someone (...?), I find that sharing books is the best way to learn a little bit more about your favourite person. 

-Your favourite Childhood book: This may technically be a book that you'll be re-reading, but I still included it in the list (mad rebellion up in hurr). Reading a book you used to love will remind you of so many old memories you had, what you used to love and things you used to find challenging to understand, find funny, etc. Because my fingers and brain cells are getting bored, I'll let you figure out why you should do this (retrospection, recollection, reminding, and other things that start with r. Rainbows?)


Because I've blabbered on for long enough, if you want to know more about me you can read this list of books below. A few of these may or may not be from my childhood (that, or I'm embarrassed to admit that I just read them a few days ago).
-The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
-The Bell Jar (Sylvia Plath)
-Wuthering Heights 
-1984
-Slaughterhouse Five
-A Clockwork Orange
-One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
-Eve's Apple
-Perks of being a Wallflower
-Away (Jane Urquhart)
-The Underpainter (Jane Urquhart)
-Memoirs of a Geisha
-Lake of Dead Languages (Don't remember who wrote this one)
-Girl, Interrupted
-Monkey Taming
-It's Kind of a Funny Story
-Water for Elephants
-Lord of the Flies
-Dubliners


Plz note plz: there are mucho more books I have read and loved. I don't remember them right now. Bye now, kthx.

Useless Knowledge

Knowledge is never useless. Some people may think it is, but the know-er always knows a way in which to use their knowledge. No use knowledge a know-er has is still good to know, y'know? Sorry. I'm done. I think I just gave myself dyslexia a little bit there. I've had a fever lately, so please pardon my incoherence.

Alec Thomson, if you read this, I find the title of this topic insulting to people who only know useless things. Discrimination!

Things that I know that seem to be useless to others:
-Entire plots and lyrics to a few musicals: I can tell you about the origin and development of their books and lyrics, who played what character and when, major changes that were made and can probably sing 9/10 songs from the musical for you. Musicals I can talk your ear off about include Spring Awakening, Cabaret, Wicked, Dream Girls, Book of Mormon, Chicago and Hairspray. I will likely recite the wikipedia page for you, word-for-word. Please do not get me started.
-Pokemon Red/Blue, Gold/Silver and Crystal: I can name you almost every pokemon, tell you what attack does the most damage, and name what can be found in each town. Do not ask me about yellow (I got frustrated and couldn't defeat Brock at the first gym so I just went back to playing Red with my level 64 Charizard [fun fact! I have a rat named Charmander. He doesn't like me very much and poos a lot. He does enjoy eating cheetos, though]) or any of the newer versions (I found the DS quite frustrating and too heavy. I didn't really like the touch screen... Pokemon made up my childhood and I can still remember where you can find each pokemon and who would win in a battle.
-Mental Problems: I find psychology fascinating, especially abnormal psychology. I have probably read ten memoirs about people spending time in mental hospitals. I can tell you the symptoms of almost any mental illness. I can talk about eating disorders, causes and treatment for hours. I can tell you how to detect suicidal behaviour and how to talk to someone who is suffering from anxiety, depression, etc. People may find this morbid but I find problems in peoples' minds fascinating. This may be due to the fact that my family is great to study (I have odd relatives).
-Canada's Food Guide
-Piercings: if you have a question about getting a piercing somewhere, where to go, how to clean it, how big your earring needs to be, or what the names for piercings in awkward places are called (helix, tragus, anti-helix, conch...), talk to me. 

Well, that probably bored you! If it didn't, I don't have a summer job and have nothing to do, so I have a LOT of time to answer any questions you may have!

P.S. I also know quite a bit about cake decorating, baking, movies, fiction books, and the Hamilton Public Library system. I also know a lot about grantmaking in non-profit organizations.

P.P.S. I also know what PS means.

P.P.P.S. Bye.

one thing I understand

???

My goal for this essay was to write about something I understand completely. I was hoping that this would relieve some of the stupidity I felt after last week. However, all it has made me realize is that I don't truly understand anything enough to deserve the title of Chief Understander.

For this reason, my essay will be left at this. Sorry, dedicated fans and readers (yeah, okay...).

One thing I wish I was smart enough to understand...

I do understand a fair number of things. I know how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, read a book, bake tasty treats and I know how to (most of the time) be nice to people. This being said, there is a lot that I don't know. This list includes:

• Quantum physics
• how vocal chords make people sing
• how my boyfriend can remember every different type of car on the road and identify them by sight
• what language pets think in (if they think)
• why people use shingles on their roofs
•  how language and writing were invented
• why people kiss (seriously, what is so goddamn romantic about smushing your lips against someone else's or licking their tongue? I just don't get it.)
• how people decided what to eat. From this follows wanting to know why we know to eat (Who thought, let's put this random substance in our mouth and chew?)
• what language deaf people think in/how they think
• why people think babies and little animals are cute
• what blind kids do in school when they're being taught the colours

 However, there is one thing that I really wish I could understand. Aside from all the questions that seem to pop into my head at the most inopportune time (e.g. "I wonder how moles grow on people's faces," "who invented icing?", "why did Bob Marley have dreadlocks? Who invented those, anyway?", "Why do people drink rotten grapes? Who decided that was a good idea?", and, the most pressing as of recently, "Why did they discontinue coloured ketchup?") the one that has bothered me for the longest time is a little more serious than the others. What's really been bothering me, and I wish I could understand, is how creativity started.

This may sound like a dumb question. But, if you think about it, it makes sense. People say that creativity is when you take what you've seen before and change them just a slight bit to make this idea into something new. But if Person Y takes components of Person X's creation, then Person Z does the same from Person Y's creation and this continues, where did Person X get his ideas from? He didn't have a person to get inspiration from.

Since the changing of ideas is really all that can be hypothesized about creativity, how exactly can one suppose that the creative process started?

You can applaud a person for their delicious cake, but who decided to put things into a hot place and see what tasty treats resulted? How does this happen?

It probably all happened in The Beginning. But I seriously doubt that God/Flying Spaghetti Monster/Allah/Other Religious Figure put people on earth and handed them an instruction manual. Is the desire to create innate in our minds? Are we inspired by what we see? How do people make the jump between seeing something in nature, like a leaf floating, to creating something extraordinary, like a flying machine (also known as an airplane)?

Sometimes, when I sit down to write (i.e. right now), I get struck by the urge to create something that nobody has ever done before. I want to make people scream WOW THAT GIRL IS SO TALENTED or HOLY MOLY MACARONI BATMAN! I NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT THAT BEFORE! but don't know how. This is when I wonder how people create. I know how people create, so then I think about big inventions, then I think about olden times, and, before I know it, I'm thinking about Person X and his talented mind.

Maybe if I were smart enough to understand how Person X created creativity, I wouldn't be sitting here writing my essay almost a week ahead of time.

If I still can't figure it out, I'll start the next essay so I don't feel so stupid and I can talk about something I actually know about.

Chekhov's Gun

Chekhov's gun is something about drama where a gun is introduced in the first act and is fired in the second act and you shouldn't include things that you don't really need and it's supposed to be subtle and it's not a red herring and blah blah blah.

That is besides the point. I stumbled upon a page describing the Chekhov's gun "dramatic device" or whatever it's called and was fascinated about the idea of a gun just sitting on the table and seeing what the characters would do.

That morphed into this.


************************************

There is a gun on the table.

There is a gun. It is on the table.

I am sitting, smoking my ninth cigarette. My hands are shaking. Breathe in, French exhale. Continue for several minutes. Eventually I make the ashtray overflow a little more.

Prescription for relaxation. But now my pack is empty. I bite my thumbnail and taste antiseptic.

I suddenly see him across the table. I knew he was there, I just didn’t see him until now. Suddenly I am embarrassed to be sitting in my lingerie from last night. My hair is matted with hairspray and sweat. I pull my hospital gown tighter, trying to hide any lace that I can. I slouch.

“So, what’ll it be then?”

I can feel him staring at me. My face is scratched from falling on the concrete. My makeup makes me look like the whore I am. I bite my nail again and think I am bleeding, but it is just red lipstick. It looks like it is dripping. I hide my hand in my lap.

I can’t see his face in this lighting.

I feel glued to the chair.

I feel stuck.

I feel.

How did I get here? I can’t remember. I just remember the mask on my face and “10, 9, 8…” and then nothing.

“So, what’ll it be then?”

I feel confused. My whole body aches and I have a pressing pain in my stomach from nerves. My garters are itchy and my stockings are ripped. I just want to leave but I can’t.

The metal chair is cold on my thighs. I cross my legs again. I can hear the man shuffle in his seat and pull out a lighter. He lights a cigarette. He offers it to me and I refuse. I can’t trust him. I don’t know why, though. I just feel.

The single light in the room is making me sweat. My makeup is probably dripping down my face in rivers. Normally it would mean losing a few clients, but I know this is not the time to be concerned about that.

He is getting angry. He asks me again, “So, what’ll it be then?”

I am blank. I don’t know what it has been, let alone what it will be.

“Do you even know how you got here?”

I stare straight ahead.

“You fucking whores. All the same.” He smashes his nearly full cigarette into the table and leans back in his chair. At least, that’s what I think he does.

“Do you know your name?”

“No.”

He hurls his chair across the room and the metal hits the concrete wall. The noise is loud, but I don’t flinch. I feel my eyelashes falling out.

“What do you do? How do you make money to afford whatever the fuck it is you do for fun or shits or whatever you call it?”

“I sell my body.” I am sore everywhere. There are even more rips in my stockings than there were moments ago. Has it been moments?

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I look down at my hands. There are cuts all over them. Were they there before? My nails are cracked. I have bruises and scrapes on my wrists.

He turns on all of the lights in the room. I flinch in the brightness.

We are in a room of mirrors. There are white porcelain tiles where the mirrors end. There is no door. I don’t question this. It does not seem odd. You just can’t leave. I know this, somehow. It seems familiar.

His features move around his face constantly. His eyes are on his chin, then his mouth is on his cheek.

I can’t look at myself in the mirror, but I see the outline of disheveled hair and running makeup in a too-big gown.

I look at the gun. There is a single bullet right beside it, dusted in ashes from the ashtray. The table is very clean. I smell antiseptic everywhere.

His face keeps morphing. I look him straight in his moving eyes.

“So, now that you can see more, what’ll it be then?”

His voice sounds familiar. I don’t know how.

I put my hand in the ashtray. The ashes turn into grey water.

“What is the gun for?”

He slaps me across the face. The sound echoes.

“Touch it.”

It’s warm.

“Who was your last client?”

I remember his suit, the smell of cigars, glasses on a desk and frantic, hushed moments in his closet.

I remember putting my businesswoman outfit back on. He liked that best: only the nicest for my regulars.

I touch the gun again. He smiles. I retreat my hand.

The feel of metal reminds me.

I remember my hand on the doorknob. I remember trying to leave.

“Grab the gun,” he says, “just fucking do it!” He is screaming now. My head splits.

The grey water swirls around the room and covers him. I am screaming. There are shreds of lace everywhere and the gun is in my hand. I fire at him.

I remember.

I remember the shot of a gun. I remember reaching into his desk drawer.

His body morphs and swirls. It joins the grey water. I am alone.

I remember him begging for me to save him. I remember him saying that they were after him. I remember him saying that they were coming to kill me. I remember him becoming someone else, but still with the same body.

I am not alone anymore. He is behind me.

I remember him saying he was going to kill me because he needed to.

My hands turn into liquid. Beeping fills the room.

I remember him grabbing my throat mid-orgasm. I remember him pushing me into the wall until my spine shattered. I remember him taking a piece of glass and plunging it inside of me before tearing off my clothes.

I remember.

He grabs my hair and pulls.

I remember being pulled out by the police.

I remember the ambulance coming.

I become more water. All that is left is a wet hospital gown. I see him standing over me. He grabs the gun and shoots me.

I am water.

Beep.

Who I Am

Things I know about myself:

• I really like reading
• I eat sprinkles by the jarful
• Sometimes I wear stretchypants in my room- just for fun.
• I have some odd habits. These include: counting things I see by threes when I get bored, writing words with my fingers on the backs of my hands and pulling my baby toenails off (I know, it's gross).
• I am always late. If I tell you I'll be there at 1:00, automatically assume 1:45. This way, if I am early by some chance, you will be very happy. Or caught off guard (this happens more often).
• I have a lot of thoughts that are very coherent and intelligent. They float around in my head and then they bubble up and I can't sit still. By this point, trying to tell someone my thoughts usually comes out as a string of unintelligible jibberish. Example: I have a lovely thought about the beautiful family next door. It comes out as: "Babies... mom... dad... love... nice... home..."
• Sometimes I feel like people don't take me seriously. This is probably due to my speech (see above). 
• I sing loudly while I drive. This is embarrassing at stoplights.
• I also sing loudly when home alone. This is embarrassing when your mother pulls into the driveway and runs in, frantically asking why you were screaming and holding a phone in her hand to dial 911. 

Hm. The "What am I" question has stumped me since I was a little girl/tomboy. I wish I could offer an answer that would satisfy whomever (whoever? I always get confused with that, too) is reading this, but I can't. I can't give a few sentences that make the reader say, "Hey, that's her. That makes sense"  after reading them.

What I can do, however, is tell you what I do know (see above). Sometimes I actually feel that other people have a better insight into my personality than I do.

But then again, what do I know?

Metal Airplanes

Today, I fell asleep on an airplane.

We had been stalled on the tarmac for about an hour. The president was landing at JFK, and every plane on the runway was prevented from taking flight on schedule.

I was supposed to ensure that my tray table was in the full-upright-and-locked position, but I used it as a pillow instead. When I woke up with my face stuck to the plastic, we were landing.

This may seem morbid. But when I awoke, I thought about how many people have died in plane crashes in their sleep. What happens to them? One minute they're snacking on the leftover peanut bits between their teeth and wading through the mire of the half-sleep-half-awake mind, and the next they're hurtling at an inhuman speed towards their watery grave. Do you think they feel (if they can feel) like they haven't been given the full death experience? Maybe they feel like you do when you're a kid and you sleep through your trip to the toy store. You still get something out of it, but you don't actually get to go through it.

I thought about this while I refused two dollar headsets for the ninth time and smelled industrial sanitizer one final time before drifting into a deep, deep sleep.

Today I slept on an airplane.

Wilkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome...

Hello. This is a blog. Please enjoy Accordingly while I write about random things that pop into my mind.