The Kidneys

After much chaos and deliberation, I have decided to decide.  To propel myself.  Because I mean, really ... this stagnation can't go on.  It is a mortal threat to my fantastic, free-thinking mind. 

And incidentally, I am absolutely, unquestionably, really fucking angry like ... now.  Because EVERYTHING always goes WRONG at the VERY SAME TIME.

My car is BROKEN and it will cost $200 to FIX IT and as though that's not enough to grind my fucking gears, it broke down when I absolutely needed it the most in order to MAKE COPIES FOR MY PORTFOLIO which I should have mailed, oh, uhm, let's see - THREE DAYS AGO and now I'm going to have to pay even MORE to send it RUSH so that it can make it to the goddamn school ON TIME.

Speaking of goddamn schools, York Universities fine arts department is NOT PICKING UP THEIR PHONE and I would like to know more about PORTFOLIO day that is happening on the 15 OF MARCH so that I can know if I have to TAKE TIME OFF OF WORK in order to MAKE IT THERE.  BUT NO.  BECAUSE NO ONE IS THERE TO ANSWER ... THE GODDAMN ... FUCKING ... TELEPHONE.

AND NEVER MIND that EBAY is a waste of TIME AND MONEY, NEVERMIND that I was sent a FAKE DS GAME and can NO LONGER LEAVE THE APPROPRIATE FEEDBACK to that sorry excuse of a FUCKING CHINK who SENT THIS GARBAGE TO ME because THE COCKMONGER deleted the FUCKING LISTING.  NO, JUST ... NEVER MIND!  OH, and a RARE and FUN game called Mystical Ninja Goemon that I was SO FUCKING HAPPY TO FIND AT WORK ... IS DEFECTIVE and so the LITTLE LUCK this week has brought me HAS JUST COMMITTED MUTINY and left me on a SINKING DEATH TRAP that is my LIFE.

UNIVERSITY is a goddamn WASTE OF LIFE unless you're majoring in BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION for NOTHING AT ALL but to find a MATE within your class colleagues in order to MARRY and work at the AIRPORT until you get PREGNANT and become a STAY-AT-HOME MOTHER who asks FOOD COURT EMPLOYEES at FAIRVIEW MALL to REHEAT THEIR FUCKING BABY FOOD.

OH, and the OTHER DAY - A BITCH JUST WALTZED RIGHT INTO THE PARKING SPOT THAT I HAD BEEN WAITING FOR ... FOR GODDAMN NEAR SEVEN MINUTES AND THIRTY-SIX SECONDS.  THAT CUNT EVEN SMILED.  I'LL BET SHE HAS A MAJOR IN BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION, A LOOSE VAGINA and NO WORRIES.

So, after the two most hideous flights of all my short life, I have finally made it to - as the title suggets - palm-fricken-trees.  Snow banks be gone.  Hurrah.

I took off from Montreal on saturday afternoon and soared over to Chicago.  That was good times.  Despite the engine noise, I still had the pleasure of experiencing an infant in a cycle of tears.  For the whole hour and forty-five minutes.  Stayed overnight in Chicago (you Americans really enjoy your football, don't you?) and was off this morning once more for four terrifying hours of ... more engine noise?

Either way, I am now sitting comfortably in my grand-parents'  home, looking out the window to a beautifully decorated courtyard.  There's actually a replica of Michelangelo's David.  Crazy.

I am enjoying myself immensely. 

Every single time I climb the path leading to the first parking lot, I see that same squirrel perched on the rim of that same garbage can trying to ingest some kind of wrapper or juice box.

It's a fat squirrel.

I like it a lot.

Integrating Seminar, I.S., incentive (for) suicide
So lately, my life has been scheduled for me in the most unceremonious of ways.  In fact, I am only taking time to type this now as I have skipped Media Studies in an attempt to protest my academic drowning.  I'm sure it will only worsen my case.  For the past three weeks I have been breathing, eating and defecating my integrating activity (that which is a film composed of photographs).  I'm super tired and super stressed and I can't wait for exhibition because that will be the final stepping stone of this nightmare.

Off to Mexico they go
My grandparents are leaving for three months on a road trip to Mexico.  Their departure is this Friday at 1 PM and I intend to put everything on hold to go and wish them a good trip.  I'm probably going to cry.

Kemptville is far
I have to go pick Caitlin up from Ontario on Friday.  Incidentally, I work until 10 PM which means two hours to get there, two hours to come back ... I should be home at 2 AM.  Sweet.  Either way, she's coming down to help with my I.S. - voice over work:  she's the narrator.

Not again
I think I'm getting another cold.

It's winter
Well, I knew it would come eventually but ... ugh.  First snowfall was yesterday and it all melted before the day was done.  Unfortunately it snowed again today and some patches of that stayed.  At least my winter tires are on and that's well and out of the way.

Vacation
Part of my can't wait for the Christmas holidays.  The other part of me knows it just means more work, more bitchy customers, crowded malls and the dramatic rush to get everyone a little something for the holidays.  Furthermore, my grandparents won't even be here.  What's the point?

So, I think I'll be alright.

I am tired.
So ridiculously tired.

I am success.
Did some tests for my integrating seminar project yesterday and the mechanics of it turned out perfectly.  Now I actually have to upload the photographs and see if I can edit them to suit the style I'm going for.  Not to mention, I finished the script which can only add to the growing excitement.

I am poor.
I bought a Wii!  Enough said.  I still need new shoes and eye liner.  Hm.  My fiscal situation cries out in protest.

I am Mii.
Also along the issue of the Wii - uh, it's awesome?  I can't wait to get more games for it.  You see ... to me, the purchase of a sleek, new entertainment device is on par with maternity.  The first time you hold it in your arms in a magical moment.  You can't help but whisper, "I love you."  and "I'll always be there for you."

I am nineteen.
As a clever friend of mine once said, "Life is a race you don't want to win."  But I am as healthy as a baby boar.  Save for the few dizzy spells, memory lapses and dimming eyesight.

I laser quest.
Went to do that thing there ... where you put on a ridiculous ... satchel of flashing armor and run around in a maze lit only by glow paint and black lights.  Then people leap out at you in corners and shoot you with little laser beams.  Yes.  I'm jittery enough in plain daylight whilst walking down a perfectly lit street.  Laser quest ... is not good for the heart.  In an attempt to flee a guerrilla soldier, I had an abrupt run-in with a wall.  I have the battle wounds to prove it.

I hate screen doors.
Speaking of abrupt run-ins, I was attempting to go from the kitchen to the porch at around 9:00 pm.  That is when screen doors prey upon the unwitting.  Again, battle wounds to prove it.

This is Sparta.
I wish.

I debit card.
$460 dollars went missing from my account.  NOT to mention the $2 service fee because it was taken out at another bank terminal.  Well, Mr. Fraud.  I will find you.  I've dated people like you before.  And since I am no longer seeing them, it can only be assumed that things went awry.  And therefore ... this is personal.

I can't stand these half-assed fucking suppers I've had to force down my esophagus for the past year and a fucking half.  It's always the same goddamn story every fucking week.  I come home hungry and tired and what do we have for supper?  Tasteless fucking frozen fish.  Pasta.  Corn.  Pasta.  Shit spaghetti sauce without the spaghetti.  Are we fucking poor?

When I work or when I'm out, then they go out to restaurants or have a half-decent meal.

Now I have to stomach the fucking fish that taste so God awful it isn't worth the billion and a half calories it contains.  Fucking greasy, half-assed foods by President's choice.  Fuck you.  Thanks to the fucking frozen food companies for facilitating dinner production and ruining my dining experience.

"Oh, we're too busy." - TOO BUSY TO EAT NON-CARCINOGENIC FOOD?  TOO BUSY TO MAKE SOMETHING THAT DOESN'T TASTE LIKE RODENT FECES?  WELL, I'M NOT TOO BUSY.

I don't care if we have all four elements to the max; I don't care if the counter is cluttered and everyone's bumping into each other trying to prepare two different meals; I don't care if that bothers them - I'm going to make my own fucking meals and when they get sick and tired of seeing my messes and my talent for voiding the fridge of any ingredients, they'll change the fucking meal plan.

One day, I will star in a reality show.  It will be called, "The Parking Lot Diaries".

The premise is that I will drive around in my grand-father's loader.  And hit cars in the John Abbott parking lot.

Best.  Show.  Ever.

The novelty of back to school slightly wears off after thirteen years.  I remember being religiously ready for this grand event at least a month ahead of time.  Duotangs, binders, HB pencils, two blue pens, one red pen, scissors, looseleaf.

I can't even find my freaking pencil.

And I haven't stuck my parking decal on.  Or gotten any of my textbooks.  I haven't even gone to bed yet.

Fudge, the start of the semester is the worst.  The first classes.  Where teachers force awkward ice-breakers on you.  "What is your field of study?  Where do you hope it will lead you?  Tell me something so everyone will remember your name."

Hey, I'm Samantha - I'm studying in Media Arts, I hope to at least avoid the gutters of Montreal and I don't know what to say because this is getting really fucking old.  Shut up.

Honestly, I don't care who my classmates are.  I'm humble enough to acknowledge they don't care who I am either.

Can we all, as an academic body, move on?

Life should come with a manual.

Like, "Note to operator:  do not obnoxiously mention your need to renew your no-baby pill for wild crazy sex right beneath the open window of your parents' room".  Even if you're being sarcastic.

It's going to be an awkward morning.

Mother of God.  I am so frustrated.  But really, it is because I am AFRAID.

This week is the last week of summer vacation and we still have a tank-load to film.  A tank-load, no jokes.  And we only have the camera TOMORROW.  That's it.  That's all.  We are so screwed.  It feels like an umbrella being opened up my proverbial anus.

And tomorrow, yeah, tomorrow ... well, it's orientation week at Abbott.  That means we can't film there.  And that's like ... one of the biggest scenes.  And Caitlin needs to be in it.  And she's going to be gone to Kemptville in a week.  Kind of like classes resuming within that week.

Umbrella.  Proverbial anus.  Okay?

Yesterday, a sixteen year old West Island twat comes to the cash thinking he can buy Resident Evil 4 for the Wii.  Look.  Personally, I think that when something is rated M, it's rated M for a damn good reason.  So no.  I won't sell him the game.

Being a West Islander, he is obviously displeased.  He always gets what he wants and he'll be damned if a stupid girl who looks younger than he does keeps him from killing fucking zombies with a chainsaw.  So he starts, in all his articulate glory, "Uh - like - what does it matter?  Like, seriously.  I have, like ... games like this at home.  Like.  I have Scarface at home.  What does it matter?"

"I'm sorry.  I can't sell you this game.  I could lose my job."

So what does he do?  He calls me a fucking cunt.  Those exact words.  "Fucking cunt."

Well.  Wow.  Good thing you just displayed the very reason why I shouldn't sell you this game. 

Now, why do people get so uptight about showing ID?  You do it when you go into clubs or when you rent porn.  Or when you buy mature rated games now - I'm so sorry that you're so inconviened.

Another girl asks, "Are you joking?" - she then proceeds to show me her cards and says with attitude a bull couldn't even muster when he's raping a cow, "I'm nineteen for your information."  Yeah.  Okay.  So you are.  Your parents must be so proud.  Were you the runt of the liter or something?  Did they not expect you to live past thirteen?  I just don't give a shit.  I need to see your cards.

Do people tell that to the bouncer?  "I'm nineteen for your information."  Does the bouncer give a shit?  No.

Neither do I.  Fuck you, you stupid little children.  Go burn magnesium in the back of your fucking high schools like good little West Islander kids should.

"Odie, SIT DOWN.  SIT DOWN.  SIT-DOWN.  ODIE.  SIT DOWN.  Good boy.  Lie.  LIE.  Roll over.  Good boy."

Moral of the story:  you can't play Nintendogs in public.

Honestly, everyone should be wary of those who are perpetually in a good mood.  Why?  Because they kill people in their sleep.  If I annihilated the folks who bugged me while I napped ... well ... we wouldn't have this overpopulation problem and I'd probably be a way calmer person.  Badaboum-chh.

Also along the same lines, I've been practicing my New England accent.  I'm going to Baowstan tuh get a divohss.  I hope I find some place to pahk my kahh.  Yeah - I'm not funny.

Honestly, if there's anything great about the States it's the accents.  In Canada, all you have are the people who cannot speak English and those who can.  So basically, you have Toronto and the rest of us.  Respectively.

And just so it's clear:  there's a difference between a sound argument and an argument that sounds good.  I'm not saying I can tell the difference.

Oh.  And Atlantic City is great.  I'm going to open up a luxury casino/hotel and call it The Villeneuve but those gosh darn crazy Americans with their accents will put a spin on it like ... Vihlnewve.  Or ... Vellanoove.  And I'll eventually rape Trump and Harrah's out of business.  And I'll sip cocktails by the bar and get the Asian flush happening but no one will care because there will be dollar bills coming out of my asscrack.  Out of my asscrack.

Yes.

Fuck.  You come into the store and you ask for a Wii and we're like, "No, sorry, but  we can -" but we don't finish our sentence because you've already flipped us the proverbial birdie and are walking away.  And then, you leave us to babysit your five children while they run rampant amongst our shelves, un-alphabetizing the titles and even eating our demo boxes - then hogging the PS3 and 360 demo systems for half an hour.  They touch my butt to get my attention and ask for the Wiimote and if we have Pokemon Diamond and how do they turn on the DS Lites?  And I can't hit them because they haven't gone through puberty yet so it's not considered sexual assault.
Then you come back in with your three bags from Reitmans and you ask for a used Xbox and I climb a rattling ladder to get one down for you.  You tell me it's not good enough and could you see another (sans "please").  I bring you down another and it's too dusty.  So I go up a third time and you figure that's enough suffering for now so you buy that one.
You buy GTA Vice City for your kids and I try telling you that it's an M-rated game and is meant for gamers of seventeen years and older but you laugh in my face and tell me that you know.  But you don't like this box - it's got a sticker on it, is there another box?  I go to the back and I get you another box but the other box doesn't have a game manual.  So nevermind.  You won't take them.  You'll take the new one.  So I go back to the storeroom and get you the stupid new game but just to let you know ...
I threw it at the wall just before bringing it out to you.
And you didn't take the extra warranty.  Haha.  Fuck you.

There were thundershowers in my backyard and it was sunny in my front yard.

Oh, and click here - vote if you can, too, please!

Can we all, just, please do the DUMP DANCE?  Don't cry for me, Argentina.

Let's be reasonable.

All I wanted was SEX.  And someone to hold me while I cried over my insecurities.

But no.  Then you said, "We should hang out more."

And I was like, "Right.  Well, then, I'll have the chicken parmesan."

Obviously, that wasn't okay because fucking stupid English people spell it "COLONEL" while you're supposed to pronounce it KERNEL.  In FRENCH, we don't have that tomfoolery.

And you know what else?  How do those fucking idiots accidentally insert two tampons?  It's a bit of a huge overlook especially since there's a drawstring hanging out of you, HELLO?

That's not all.  Oh no.  Because fiction is limitless and I nurse it along with nonsense.

Film making is a practice that takes much time.  More so it often takes much cash or much ingenuity.  Or both.  Mostly both.

With that in mind, Steve and I embarked on our creative quest last Thursday in order to dissipate the possibility of our low budget affecting the quality of our film.  First on the list - we needed a wheelchair.

One may ask, "What the hell for?"

Well - and let me get my expert filmmaker goggles on with +3 perception for this - because camera movement is particularly important in any film production and good, smooth movements only make a film more spectacular.  Oftentimes, with only a tripod at hand, it's difficult to get those fluid motions in and therefore ... the wheelchair.  It allows for dolly-ins, dolly-outs, tracks and pans without giving off the impression we're watching a home video.

Obviously, wheelchairs are expensive and can't usually be obtained for artistic purposes.  So we decided to pay a good old visit to The Salvation Army thrift store.  For those of you in the dark - I have no idea how army surplus stores work but I just know that everything is second hand and cheaper.  Being the bratty West Island child that I've cultivated myself to be, I don't go there.  Usually.

We found our wheelchair at the thrift store on Notre-Dame.  Steve looks it over, finds a sticker bearing the number twenty, "Twenty bucks - you know, great.  Because that's exactly how much I have in my wallet."

A green Queen Elizabeth for a wheelchair?  Yeah right.  Even I'm not naive enough to believe that.  But I don't say anything quite yet.  Steve is wheeling it around, running this way and that and finally, exclaiming, "Shit - this is perfect.  Want to take a ride?"

"It's totally not twenty dollars."  I smile, biting my lower lip.

"Yeah, I know."  He begins trying to fold it.  I watch him a moment, amused.  Ever see a very well-built young man force like a bull trying to collapse a wheelchair?  He was even doing the weird groaning noises.

After fully exploring the capabilities of the chair we begin pacing around it.  There are two other price tags, less damaged and both clearly read "220".  Yeah.  That's more like it.

"Hmm, I'm not paying $220."  I declare.

"Of course not."  And then he smirks, "What if I just ..." He begins picking away at the second price tag, removing the first two.  He moves onto the third and does the same, "Oh ... look ... twenty bucks."

I gape at him, "Uhm, buddy - that's totally not going to work."

He scoffs, "What the fuck are they going to do?  Scan the barcode?"

"They're going to know - it's a wheelchair!"

"We'll try."

I can't, for the life of me, act innocent when I'm supposed to.  If I could, I'd be in trouble a whole lot less, "And if it doesn't work?  Are you going to bitch and whine that they're obligated to give it to you for the price you see?"

"Well, no, I won't be an asshole about it." Steve begins wheeling it to the cash.  I sigh and follow suite, "Ah, excellent.  She looks young and impressionable." He remarks of the cashier.

Unfortunately, she is not as he envisioned, "What does it say on the tag?"  She asks.

"Twenty dollars." He replies, very suave - very casual.

"That's not right."  She calls over another woman.  Said other woman waddles over, checks all three price tags and confirms that it is indeed twenty dollars but the young woman doesn't let up, "No, that's impossible."  She's getting wise.  And I think the worst part of it all was Steve and I with our designer jeans, sunglasses and overall appearance of two nasty little rich kids.  I feel ... like an asshole.

They bicker but finally, the cashier gives up.  She punches in 20.00.  I look into Steve's eyes for just a moment because the tension is just too much to bear,  "Is there tax on that?"  I see him turn away to ask.  I almost laugh out loud.  Turns out - no tax.

We walk out into the disgusting heat of Montreal pinching our lips together to keep away the huge grins just yearning to crack.  As soon as the door shuts behind us, I begin shaking my head, "We just swindled a non-profit organization out of two hundred bucks."

"That ... was amazing!"

"How do you feel?"  I ask.

"Like I'm ... not going to lose sleep over it."

"I'm going to have nightmares tonight."  With that big-ass smile on my face, I'm sure I'm believable.

He laughs at me, "Are you serious?"

"We just ... we ... like ... the girl totally knew."

We load up the chair in his trunk and get inside the car, "Look - they clearly need to get a better pricing system."  Steve begins to argue.

"And plus, we're not up to mischief with this - we're going to use it to advance our filming careers."  I pipe in.

"Right - we're using it for artistic purposes."

"Yeah."  I pause, "We're ... trying to justify ourselves, aren't we?"

"Yeah."

A strange kind of excitement invigorates me for a moment, "Man - that was so cool!"