OW!

Are you trying to hurt me?

Don't tell me you all have lives and that's why you're not blogging.

I've done my part. I commented on all of your newest posts (twice, some of you), I updated both of mine, and I am entertaining and I love you. (that's my part.) I don't even have a computer. Qu'est-ce fuck is your excuse.

Missing you is worse when I have to e-miss you too.

Ease my pain, friends.

Revenge

Okay, so I know we all do it. Well, I know I did it...do it still. I fake sick, like all the time. But I never faked sick to people, just bosses. And to get out of school. That's no big deal.

But don't fake sick to people, to your family. That's just dumb.

I didn't believe her. I knew, I knew she was faking it--it takes one to know one. And her grandma bought it, hook, line and centre. (ps, I don't know what that expression means.) She was pampered like a princess and got everything she wanted. And I seemed cruel for not really sympathising. Sure enough, half an hour later, she was FINE. No, not fine, jumping and screaming with irritating joy.

This is punishment. I know it. All my old bosses called Switzerland and made sure they found me a girl who fakes sick and gets away with it.

I Can Only Tell You!

I miss Canada.

I miss Gilmore Girls.

I miss other TV.

I miss my bed.

I miss my mom.

I miss peanut butter.

I miss Tequila.

I miss Crews.

I miss the Mermaids.

I miss Barrie.

I miss Newmarket.

I miss the Vic.

I miss Randolph.

I miss my kitchen.

I miss my cat.

I miss my PJs.

I miss eggs for breakfast.

I miss chinese food.

I miss flat land.

I miss straight roads.

I miss not 9-5.

I miss unconventional.

I miss the possibility of drugs.

I miss English.

I miss Korea Town.

I miss the VM.

I miss daily freedom.

I miss the movies.

I miss hanging out.

I miss performing.

I miss you.

...

Having said all that:

I like mountains.

I like cheese for dinner.

I like walking everywhere.

I like hot chocolate.

I like new movies.

I like petting zoos.

I like French.

I like friendliness.

I like travel opportunities.

I like people watching.

I like castles.

I like christmas in the air.

I like my big room.

I like the crows.

I like weird crowds.

I like stunts.

I like my heart growing fonder.

I like letters.

I like baby smiles.

I like my advent calendar.

I like blogs.

I like free weekends.

I like writing.

I like my new scarf.

...

I hope that's enough to last me a year.

Chocolat

As I mentioned in a comment on Skinny Rabbit's blog, I am completely sick of being in the audience. Oh how I miss the stage.

Oh yeah, also, I want to act with Johnny Depp. Why can't I? Who the fuck is Keira Knightly, and why the fuck does she get to act--make out with--Johnny Depp?!?

(this all feels familiar...have I blogged this before?)

Anyway, Keira can suck my balls. It's my turn to make out with Johnny Depp. I'm older than her--which is the most depressing thought in the world. This age thing.

But one of the people I wanna be is Catherine Zeta-Jones (started with Zorro! got to do a movie musical...) and she didn't get a movie until she was 27. Now I'm not as gorgeous as Catherine Zeta-Jones, I'm not as young and skinny as Keira Fucking Knightly, but I decide I have a chance. So, the age I will kick ass and, like, get something is 25. That kills me, as I wanted it to be 18. At the oldest 22. Why am I already 23? It's okay, it's okay, 25 is the age. It's happening. I have nothing else to do.

A few unrelated side notes:

1) Yesterday was my half birthday. Nobody cares about their own half birthday, let alone mine, but I still like to at least recognise that I'm a half a year older. I used to make my mom acknowledge the day with a special dessert or something. I thought about that yesterday, and sure enough, she sent me a "Happy Half-Birthday love, Mommy" email. Best mom ever.

2) I'm listening to the South Park Christmas CD and I'm so freaking cheerful you could hang me on your tree.

3) Miss Pants is officially my favourite blog commenter. Sorry to those of you who thought you were in the running. She takes the cake (though I THOROUGHLY appreciate and love the rest of your comments too). Thanks Miss Pants!

4) I just watched Chocolat. If you don't love that movie, you need to repent.

ack! Thppth!

I know I seem totally bi-polar-y like all the time, but then, everone is, if you go by blogs.

I'm better now...I'm meeting a guy from a band for drinks tonight, to see if I can be in his band!

I'm super excited to a) be among grown ups, b) go aaaaoooouuut tonight, c) talk about music and stuff and d) not sit in my room and be a fuck up.

I used to be president of the fuck up club but I'm giving it up (I say this all the time) (he does this every friday--what's that from?) to become an accomplished...um...human being. or something.

Now, I'm going to do dishes.

Reading Makes Me Write

I've been wanting to blog this:

It was supposed to be different.
It's the same.

I've been looking for familiarity; I got it. Recently, in a good way--A couple of British men with their little boy at the park speaking English and not being awkwardly polite like everyone else in this town. But mostly, it's just that there is nothing here you can't get at home.

It was flushed out in my mind, the gay couple and the shopping stories. They are pretty boring now, I guess, but I think they get my point across. Anyway, today, I wrote this in my journal:

You know how time...moves? It moves differently at different times. (I don't think I'm a genius for figuring this out, I just think I'm lame for the way it happens to me.)

Here's what that thought brings to my mind:

Just now, after doing yoga for 30 seconds, I thought "wow, this feels good," but I also thought "yeah fucking right I'm gonna do this for longer." The voices of made up yoga instructors were saying "5 minutes for a sun salutation, breathe, take it slow," and "surely 5 minutes out of your day will go unnoticed!" (who talks like that?) But in the first 30 seconds of the five minutes, it's not unnoticed. It's a huge fucking hindrance. I'm not spending 12 times the time I just spent on that. (I can do it in a class for an hour and a half. It's on my own that I have problems.)

Also:

Almost every time I brush my teeth, I remember my grade 1 competition with Michelle; Who Brushed Their Teeth Longer This Morning? "I brushed for 3 minutes this morning, I counted." I lied every single morning. It's embarrassing to admit you don't clean your teeth like you're supposed to. But I brushed! I brushed until there was nothing on my teeth which was always the same time I got bored. Why in the world would I brush longer than that? (now I know that there's serious stuff under the obvious stuff but I have an electric toothbrush--3 minutes of that in my mouth is completely ridiculous.)

Also:

Chewing. We're supposed to chew, what 34 times per bite? No way! What are you eating that you can't swallow after 20 chews? Have you ever counted? You'll be swallowing AUTOMATICALLY at 12, 17 tops. Shouldn't you just do what your body tells you?

The problem is, I'm always wishing I could be on to the next thing, and I'm always pining for the last thing. The last bite was so good, why didn't I savour it? I'd rather be brushing my teeth in the bathroom in my sweat pants than on the bus. And I certainly love yoga.

When I'm reading, yeah, I'm comfy, but I wanna go out. I need human contact and I feel like I should. When I'm out, I wish I wasn't spending money.

Other than friendship, the only thing that is not a waste of time is performing and art.

Since there are no friendships here, I need to perform.

Then I read Nick Hornby for a bit (which I reccomend, all of it) and went to the bathroom and then wrote this:

I'm getting fat.
My breasts look fabulous in this shirt.

Those are the two things I note when I look in the mirror.
(Maybe the latter is directly influenced by the former?)

But will my lovely, fat, perfect breasts distract me from the fact that my eyes look tired and sad? The fact that my second chin is getting significantly bigger? The fact that I'm too lazy to pluck my eyebrows or put on mascara? (don't underestimate the seriousness of laziness.) The fact that my hair is still in limbo?

Will my beautiful necklace and well dressed upper body distract me from the oversised cut-off second-hand red sweat pants on my devastatingly overgrown thighs?

No.

Well, maybe the good things are a small consolation--but the question is "what does it matter?"

No one here cares what I look like. There are no boys I want to impress, no connections that seem makable.

What's worse--No one to look good for, or the inevitability of looking bad if there were someone?

I'm not sad because I'm alone.
I'm sad because I'm not making any friends.

I'm not sad because I'm fat.
I'm sad because I'm not getting thin.

I'm not sad that I'm babysitting.
I'm sad that I'm not performing.

It's the "not" that makes me sad.

I always do this. Or I guess, I always don't.

But then I had the beautiful hope of Switzerland.

It was supposed to be different.
It's the same.

I looked at my journal and thought. I added:

I was supposed to be different.
I'm the same.