The Kidneys

I have the insatiable need to clear some things up about Taylor Swift's new tear-jerker hit, "Love Story".  I just can't help myself.  The first line ... just the first line, "We were both young when I first saw you [...]" is wrong.  She goes from collective to singular in nine words.  But I'm a grammatically forgiving individual ... if only that was her only trespass.

The song goes on to depict Romeo throwing pebbles, at what - well, wouldn't we all like to know - we're assuming is a window because that's just the kind of heart-fluttering thing Ms. Swift would find alluring.  And then onwards to how this illicit affair between Romeo and Juliet begins to evolve.  They're planning to run away, see?  But Juliet is left waiting for what we're assuming is weeks - which converts into teenage centuries - since the poor girl is left to wonder if it's all in her head.  Because she's read He's Just Not That Into You.  She has her suspicions.

But that's all cleared up since they meet on the outskirts of town and he kneels down to pull out a ring - (harmonious "awww") - and say that he chatted up her old man, that she should immediately invest in a ceremonial attire and that he loves her ... and that's all he really knows.  That's all he knows.  I mean, he's been plotting this for weeks - which converts into teenage centuries - but all he really knows is that he lurvs her.

By the way, Romeo and Juliet die.  I know, I've read the book.  I'm assuming Ms. Swift hasn't.

At our designated lunch hour, my peers and I congregate to the large food court on the first floor of the Bell Canada building to you know ... eat.

Today, Mrs. Professional unwraps herself a pork sandwich, looks over to Ms. Euro and says, "Oh, I hope you don't mind - I'm not sure if you're Muslim or not."  You know ... because of the pork sandwich.

Now, Ms. Euro incredulously replies, "Why would you assume I were Muslim?"

Pardon me for interjecting: BECAUSE YOU'RE BROWN.  I didn't say that, I shut up and ate my tortellini and watched the ensuing catastrophe that was supposed to have been my lunch break.  Mrs. Pro wasn't trying to be a dick.  It was an innocent comment regarding her fucking sandwich.  Her fucking sandwich made of pork, ok?  It had very little to do with being prejudice and a lot more to do with assumptions and as unfortunate as assumptions may be there is a large margin of seriousness between it and fucking prejudice.  Can we make that clear to all you visible minorities (myself included)?

I might be blessed with a bi-polarity towards this issue (being white and non-white at the same time) but I think I'm taking it all in stride.  Bell Canada is a box of walking stereotypes.  A gargantuan black man came up to me yesterday and dared to say, "Ni hao" - yes, that's right, FUCKING NI HAO; I haven't met one single person who hasn't asked me "What are you?" and "Do you speak Chinese/Japanese/Vietnamese/Korean? [note: THEY CAN'T EVEN TELL WHICH I AM] Why not?" and you know what?  I'm not making a huge fucking deal out of it.

Because unlike some people who have been living under a social rock, I've learnt that people don't know what they can't see and that's the principle the world was built on.  I'm very aware of appearances and their polar opposite called reality - I've taken classes on this shit - but everyone on this fucking earth has been swayed by the way things look.  Everyone.

So in this context, to Mrs. Pro's initial line of questioning, it would have been perfectly acceptable for me to butt in and reply, "Obviously not, she's Moroccan - aren't they all Jews?"

Now an employee of Bell Mobility.  Good pay, insurance benefits, free cellphone usage.

Yep.

It's just like selling out.

So much for "propelling".

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.