Shapin' Up, Shippin' Out

I made a new blog. It's over here, and it's better.

The Madness of Untitled Amie

You know, the older I get, the more I realize that I'm totally insane.

This realization isn't a result of getting wiser with age, although I suppose that's inevitable for most people. No, the older I get, the more I do crazy things.

While some people have skeletons in the closet, I have an ever growing stockpile of bats in my belfry. They just keep multiplying, like rabbits.

Or rabid bats?

Ever hear about that study that was done by some nameless research group who concluded that the mind of a true artist works more like that of a schizophrenic than the mind of the regular person? I guess it has something to do with, among other things, being able to see regular everyday objects through brand new eyes over and over again.

From my own experience, it also appears to involve being incapable of choosing logic over emotion.

Like a child.

Acting first, and thinking later, as it were.

But my hindsight is fairly accurate. I always know what I should have done, after the damage has been inflicted.

I'm working on a strategy in those regards. Basically, whatever I think I should say or do, I should just do the opposite, and then I will be more like the regular person, and thus, less impulsive. Less destructive, less offensive, less embarrassed, less like me.

But that's so unnatural.

Sometimes that "useful" filter is more like horse blinders, or tunnel vision.

And it's not like everything I do ends in disaster. Sometimes I'm capable of completing an impulsive act with utter success. Sometimes my lunacy actually helps others, and myself too.

Lately, one of my biggest problems has to do with the subjective need to level with people. To clear the air where it doesn't necessarily need to be cleared.

This has happened at least three times over the past month, and with disastrous results for the most part.

I learned that not everyone is as altruistic as they sometimes should be, according to me, once again subjective.

I also learned that I can be referred to as both "disgusting" and "noble", all for the same action, depending on the perspective of the observer.

A Load Off

I cursed myself with that MANifesto.

Ever since I wrote it, I have completely chickened out. I can't even look a man in the eye, much less chat one up.

And ask some dude out on a date? You must be kidding.

Paralyzed.

My self confidence is at an all time low, and the timing couldn't be better.

I haven't even the faintest whiff of a crush on anyone. Well, barely. Nothing worth speaking of, at any rate. I deleted that post, so let's pretend for the sake of consistency that there's not even the faintest whiff of a crush.

Ahem.

I am a rock unto myself. A slimy rock, lying in my own filth. Acting out a very passive form of self destruction.

Avoiding my art, avoiding a social life, avoiding all logic at the expense of my own self denigrating inner dialogue, which I'll bet you two to one is far worse than any exterior bad words said in my honour.

Ah, me.

Fortunately, my MANifesto has not gone unnoticed. It is being used by others to improve their own love lives, and successfully so, I might add.

At least my words are making a positive impact, even if my actions are not.

Do Your Abilities Meet My Needs?

Damn, Lenin'stache.

You might be so full of Bolshevik that it's oozing out your ears, but I don't care. You are one foxy commie pinko bastard.

Did you know that red is my favourite colour?

I would Frida your Trotsky any day.

Lesson Not Learned, Still Owing

I am fully exhausted.

Mentally, emotionally, physically exhausted.

Squeezed through a wringer, dragged across town square, drawn and quartered.

Chastised, assaulted, belittled by the masses. Likely, some of the very same people who read last week of my oh so talented hands and the fabulous frocks they created.

Fucking people.

A despicable human trait, where we so enjoy creating these pristine pedestals upon which to perch, and point our accusatory finger at those we deem inferior.

I worked so hard this weekend.

Guts spilled, no glory, tiny amount of lucre with which to feather my nest.

O Humans

You are the speck of dirt in my oyster.

Irritating, to say the least.

And if I don't make a pearl, it is only due to my unskilled meat, and nothing more.

Last night, all I wanted was to be held tightly.

Tonight, after a second day of torture, all I want is an unconscious night without dreams of blame addled twits.

Tomorrow, maybe I'll want a pap smear and a tetanus shot. Hopefully, because that's what I'm getting.

Epilogue

Yesterday, when I told a co-worker that it was my birthday, he responded with "Aw, you're going to get smashed! There's going to be videos on youtube of your night tonight!"

I figured that would be a good thing, it would help me remember my night.

Luckily, I behaved myself amazingly well, considering how drunk I was.

Really, I know what I'm capable of when I'm in my cups. I have, in the past, ended friendships, fucked in public, puked in taxis, gotten friends into fistfights with strangers, saved lives, pissed in my garbage can, smoked pot with homeless people, messed around with chicks, messed around with married men, and insulted innocent bystanders, to name a few things.

And that was just what I can remember from last week.

So, putting last night into perspective, I was almost an angel.

Almost.

I did forget my new drinking mantra, "Don't hit on the bartender", but I also came up with an even better mantra for next time, "Don't hit on the bartender and his foxy friend and offer them a hit from my flask, even if they are off duty and off property". Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but whatever, poetry is for suckers.

I got some nice presents.

I got a little man-toy-voodoo thingy, which I'm planning on unleashing on my various crushes.

So take heed, Dear Various Crushes, if your penis starts a-twitching, and you can't stop thinking about me, you should probably just surrender before it gets messy. Don't worry, I don't bite. Unless you want me to.

And if you aren't a member of the Various Crush Club, but your penis is still a-twitching and you think about me too much, you probably have syphilis. Gross.

If Not Pent Up, Might Not Blow

So yeah, tomorrow is my birthday.

And for the past four years or so, I've suffered some sort of mental breakdown as a result.

Crying, panic attacks, irrational fears over my teeth falling out, it's never a pretty sight. Last year was the worst. Heading into a new decade with a compound hangover, and some horribly unforgettable behaviour on my part, I was not terribly pleased with my birthday extravaganza.

One year, I had a huge bawling fit over having to waitress the day after I saw my grandparents. Mind you, I really love my grandparents, who I rarely get to see, and really hated the customers at the Groundhog Pub, so I feel I had good reason to be on an emotional roller coaster at the time.

When I was in grade one, birthdays would be celebrated by the entire class standing around the birthday boy/girl, and singing them a Bonne Fete (French Immersion). I think there was also some sort of cake eating involved, and maybe some festive hats, too. I was totally looking forward to this special treatment for my own birthday, so you can imagine my disappointment when my stupid teacher forgot my birthday.

And when I told my mom about it, and she called my teacher to ask WTF, the teacher told her that we did celebrate my birthday, and I must have just forgotten.

What a freaky bitch.

Anyway, tomorrow, I'm planning on working during the day and getting drunk with a few select friends in the evening. If drunkenly hitting on the foxy bartender is the worst thing I do, and I hope I don't even do that, I'll count myself blessed.

Wish me luck!

My 31st Birthday is on Wednesday

This week is starting off disgustingly.

The skin on my left hand is flaked and peeling.

My hair is graying and unwashed.

My complexion is sallow and unhealthy.

I am aging at an alarming rate.

I spent the entire day eating and then fretted over the possible weight gain and the chances that no man would ever want me; which I know isn't true, there's always some desperate chub-rubber kicking around, and it's not like I was getting any more action weighing five pounds less. Nevertheless, I'm going back on that soup diet to drop what I picked up along the way.

Now last week, that one was way more interesting.

I drank so much, and so frequently, that I stopped getting hangovers by Friday. I felt both better and worse about this. Better because I wasn't hungover, and worse because my entire state of normalcy had lowered itself a couple of notches into a new realm. From general comfort to slight crapitude.

And knowing that my body could so easily adapt to this onslaught of toxins did nothing to improve my perspective. I just figured I had found a new nook or cranny to grow a tumour.

Oh, and I lost my voice over the weekend. I sound stupid.

So I did nothing productive today. I went to Value Village and stocked up on all the garbage books I had been craving when I didn't have the time to waste on frivolities. Archies, Baby Sitter's Club, Sweet Valley High and the ever enthralling V.C. Andrews.

I have spent the entire day in greasy pulp heaven.

Tomorrow, I'll get back to work and pull a commercial Spring/Summer line out of my ass.

Tonight I'll dine on cigarettes and the traumatic adolescence of Catherine Dollanganger. I was never that horny when I was sixteen, I can't even imagine where she'll be at thirty. Oh wait, I already know where she'll be: living in sin with her brother after having fucked her step father, her guardian and her hetero ballet dancing husband who kills himself after breaking his back in a drunk driving accident.

Fucking love V.C. Andrews.

Telemarketers, Revisited

My phone just rang, which is annoying enough at any time of day. The ring is loud and abrasive and usually startles the hell out of anyone within hearing range, hearing range being the entire GTA.

When I answered with a "Hello?", an electronic voice told me that this was not the appropriate response.

Fine.

Next time I'll take the more traditional approach and answer my phone with a hearty "Fuck off!"

Brother, I Wanna Thank Your Mother for a Butt Like That

Guess how many times I listened to this song today?

I think it was six. I wasn't counting.

Anyway, I really like Salt n Pepa. I find them refreshing. They are a perfect complement to my New World MANifesto.

Bowzer Sucks

Know what I really miss?

Super Nintendo.

I had one a few years ago, which was wicked, but then it busted. Understandably, it was about 15 years old, ancient for the world of technology.

What I wouldn't do for some Super Mario Land/World/World3, or even Mariokart.

My roommate and ex boyfriend and I would take turns playing against each other in Mariokart. I would be Yoshi, Roommate would be Mushroom, and Ex would be Luigi. Or was it Mario?

As far as abilities went, Roommate and I were on par with each other, and Ex was way better. He was three years younger than I, two younger than Roommate, and therefore, spent more of his childhood playing Super Nintendo, thus giving him the mad skills to beat our asses on a regular basis.

Ex was both a sore winner and loser, so on the odd occasion that he lost, we totally had to rub it in.

We invented our own slang for the games.

When you bang into a wall and can't turn around, it's called "clamming".

And when you have a hard time gaining momentum after you clam, and are lurching forward at an awkward pace, it's called "clam chugder".

We had a special curse, which was "Doom of Death". As in "Get ready, Motherfucker, it's the Lightning Round and you're gonna get the Doom of Death." But we never used that particular sentence. Just speaking the phrase "Doom of Death" was threat enough.

Those were the only terms we invented.

Art Makes a Great Wingman

Countdown:

In another 36 hours, I may never have to make another crinoline again.

If there's one thing I learned from this whole experience, it's that I hate making crinoline, and that I spent way too much money on a clothing line that will never bring me any financial return.

It's not a commercial line, it's just art. And really, where's art gotten me in the past?

Nude, lewd and screwed, among other things.

I guess that's pretty good. It's gotten me more fun than grocery shopping, at any rate.

And now that this sewing debacle is over, I can once again indulge in the finer aspects of life.

Yep, nude, lewd and screwed. That's where I'm heading. Again.

I Actually Pay Cash for The Experience

Words of advice:

Don't ever go ten years without visiting a dentist. Not like I did.

Even though I only have two small cavities, my tartar buildup was spectacular.

I thought I'd chipped a tooth a few weeks back, but as it turned out, I just lost a big chunk of tartar.

So gross.

And the dental cleaning was all sorts of traumatizing. I had no idea there were such large gaps between my bottom teeth. They had been filled up with ten years of tartar.

And the bloodshed. Good heavens, it was like a scene from a horror movie.

But I got a new pink toothbrush for being such a good girl, so I guess things aren't all that bad.

Hot Iron Fist

Ow
Ow
Ow

Ow
Ow

Ow
Ow


My uterus hurts something fierce.

Like a Fox in a Hen House, Strike and Strike Hard

Sometimes all it takes is a new perspective to change everything.

Learned a valuable life lesson this weekend, one that I'm going to share with all the ladies in the city.

I had a conversation with a girlfriend about men and their apparent apathy in regards to the dating scene.

Why don't guys show any interest in fucking/dating anymore? I can't even remember the last time a viable dude hit on me. By viable, I mean nice looking guys around my age who are into the same things I'm into. Nothing outrageous, just regular guys.

She was going through the same scenario, and had had the same conversation with other girlfriends. The dudes are apathetic.

So I talked to two trusted male friends about this, and they gave me the exact same answer:

The dudes are scared.

Scared of offending us. Feeling that approaching a pretty lady to offer her a drink and some light conversation will be seen as sexist. So they do nothing and everyone loses.

Until now.

Because of this cross-gender breakthrough communication, we have found the answer.

It's our turn to take the wheel, girls.

These guys aren't going to change. They were brought up in the post women's liberation movement, and so were we.

We no longer wait by the phone, with baited breath, hoping Prince Charming will call. Even our mothers called that old fashioned. It's time we put our money where our respective mouths are. We get up off our lazy asses and pick out our own princes.

I personally prefer to choose which man deserves to share with me a shot of Irish Whiskey and some light conversation. If he turns me down, I don't take the rejection too seriously, I'll just cast my line back into the ocean and reel in another.

It gets easier with practice, trust me.

Anyway, they usually say yes.

Don't get me wrong, this is by no means a one way street. You are not expected to do all the menial work, ladies. These guys have to pull their own weight, too. Just don't wait around for them to start things up, they're too chicken.

Ladies Initiate, Fellas Reciprocate. New world order, pass it on.