Cleanse.

So I went out last night to the Taste of the Danforth and ate five pierogis, a lamb gyro, and an entire funnel cake.
Today, I decided to take a Leek Cleanse and eat nothing but leeks and leek broth.

I kind of want to take a baby cow, slaughter it, and just take a bite out of its raw thigh, fur and all.
I could also settle for a Big Mac.

BUT I CAAAAAAAAAAN'T.

Observations from the La-Z-Boy at 1:14

1) Craig Ferguson, can you please be a bigger asshole? Bill Clinton just saved two journalists from North Korea and your only joke (that you keep running into the ground) is, "He's used to bringing two girls home" and "He's good at sneaking girls out of government buildings".

2) Craig Ferguson, can you not find a better guest than old washed-out CNN reporters who are known mostly for sensationalizing human interest stories?

3) Wolf Blitzer, can you please delete yourself from life?

Me: "PEOPLE DON'T COMMENT ON MY BLOG."

Dave: "to be fair, your first poem was basically porn"


WHO ELSE THOUGHT THIS??? It was NOT porn, it's actually about two people just SLEEPING together. So get your mind out of the gutters.

ALSO. You people are NOT allowed to complain about me not blogging enough if YOU GUYS DON'T GIVE ME ANYTHING (in the form of comments). Hop to it!

That is all.

Snippets

His thigh is heavy as it has migrated to the bend of my knee, and an arm sinks limply over my waist. I am Toto, the stuffed bear from his childhood.
He breathes inconsistently, one minute through his mouth, blowing a short passage of air into the nape of my neck; and suddenly, with a hiss like a leaky gas pipe and a short gasp, the tunnels change and he exhales through his nose, down my back.

It can't last, and we both know this, but with my eyes wide open, our legs intertwined, and as he is clutching me like Toto the bear, we will take what we can get. With the back of his hands brushing the hem of soft pink chiffon, I feel very eerily like I am on an airplane, seatbelt cinched at my waist, watching the turbulence light flicker.

In two hours, the sun will rise, and I will have both feet once again planted on solid ground.

C'est tout, bébé. We both know this was a one way ticket.

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She stands over the kitchen counter, delicately and lovingly slicing pears. She takes her toasted bread out of the oven, spreads Nutella over them, and lays each sliver of pear across the slices of bread. She glances at the clock.

In the last forty minutes, she has woken up (beating her alarm clock by 13 minutes), lay in bed in deliberation, taken a shower, gotten dressed, and is now eating her breakfast over the kitchen sink. In the next twenty minutes, she will brush her teeth, fix her make-up, zip her luggage bag, and roll it out the door, realizing, two minutes after ensuring all the locks, that she has left dirty dishes in the sink. She does not turn back.

When she is safely on the bus, she takes out a book and flips it to the first page. "I Wish Someone Were Waiting For Me Somewhere". This is an unusual selection for her - it's a recently release book, for one thing, and the title tells nearly nothing about the plotline. Perhaps she chose it because one week prior, she was in the area of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, the very location where the book begins. Or maybe because Vogue (a magazine she frequently leafs through) has hailed the author as a "distant descendant to Dorothy Parker" (a poet she frequently enjoys).
However, most likely of all, it may just be because she wants more than anything to find out how the story ends.

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Hello, mes cheres. I'm back, and boy, am I ever in the deep now.

My Airport Year

Apologies for not updating in two months.
A lot has happened.
So since my last post, I have completed my second year of Journalism at Concordia, signed up for French classes in Montreal that I didn't really need, received a surprise e-mail in the middle of one of the said French classes, found myself on a bus back to Toronto the next day, and then on a train to Jonquiere, QC a week later.

This is where I rested for five weeks.

And of course, in those five weeks, I met the most dazzlingly interesting young people in Canada, picked up a good basis for conversational French, hung out in several distinct and artistic cafes, hiked up more mountains than I thought was possible for my little body, learned the full effects of inappropriate footwear, and left swiftly and silently, asleep on a bus with the country roads falling fast behind me.


Tomorrow, I take a very long car ride back to Montreal (the dotted liasonal world, it seems, between me and everywhere else I want to go), to board a plane, to fall asleep and wake up in the City of Lights. The past half year has passed by so quickly, and it hasn't really hit me that I'm leaving so soon. I don't think it will hit me until I get there, and then it'll just fly by again until I return back to Toronto. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Switzerland, London, back to Paris. This is all beyond belief. I keep reminding myself that the worst thing that could happen to me (discounting natural disasters and the slight chance of like, kidnapping or whatever -- but I'm a smart cookie so I'm sure I'll be okay) is that I will actually learn something about myself. I feel like if I don't take advantage of my current financial position and my youth and do something crazy by myself, I won't be able to do anything I set out to do later. I'm living actively.

I've been thinking about life lately. I'll give you the full report when I've deciphered all my thoughts and organized them neatly (or messily) in my notebook, sitting in the Jardins de Luxembourg or in an actual Paris cafe. Perhaps then I will know what it is like to stop thinking and start living the life.

Right, well then.

Wish me luck!

Au revoir, Canada!

Memos

Remember in grade 12, in Hoogendam's class, with the memos and reading them every day/week/month, etc.? So I'm at home, leaving tomorrow to go back to school to re-cram everything I learned in the past semester back into my head before my exams on Tuesday and Wednesday.

I kind of miss high school.

BUT MEMOS.

This was the last one I ever did.

It is 1:50 and I am falling asleep at the keyboard. Here it is, folks, the final stretch. Unbelievable. I’ve been slaving over World Issues and worrying about Philosophy all night, but here I am, with this new document open, scrambling for coherent sentences that I could possibly slap down here, it is so weird. Kind of like the deafening quiet that comes after you’ve just shut off your iPod, turned off your cell phone, shut the doors. This is our last day of high school. Frankly, the sentimentality hasn’t set in, and I really don’t think it will. It’s time, you know? I feel like if I stay one more year, I might actually drive myself to the point of sticking my hands in my head and pulling out my brain. This is not to say that I didn’t enjoy high school, because I did. More so than I would have enjoyed my old school. Did that sentence make sense? I don’t care. I’m tired.
So next year I’m going to Montreal, to study Journalism at Concordia University. This is exciting. I was actually in Montreal last week for orientation, and it was the eeriest feeling. I arrived late, ambled my way inconspicuously to the back corner, took a seat, and, looking around me and seeing those blank faces, I slowly filled them with time. This time next year, I could actually know most of their names, or their background. This time next year, they’ll all be a thousand times more familiar.
I’m sorry, I really don’t know what I’m going on about. I don’t function well at all under these conditions. So, back to high school and how awesome my experiences here have been. Okay --- wait, I just heard a weird sound. I’m the only one up, and I’m totally creeped out now. Whatever. Back to high school. Okay, never mind, I can’t really think about that right now, nothing comes to mind. So how much do I wish that exams were over? Oh man. So much. I’ve been in this funk for too long, I tell you. I feel like I’ve been slowly working my way up a mountain, and I’ve gotten to the point where I can see the tip, and it’s just so close, but I’m so tired and worn thin that it’s taking forever to just get one leg up, and then the other, and pull my way up. And I still know that at the top of this mountain, I can just free-fall into a refreshing lake or something, y’know? Okay, so the song My Sharona by The Knack has just come up on Party Shuffle, and that has lifted my spirits considerably.
It feels like I’ve been working on this memo forever and it has only been ten minutes. I’m really, really sick of pages and pages of Times New Roman.
So I’m sorry for depressing the hell out of everyone right now. My life isn’t very interesting. Well, actually, I do well with it, but I’m not really in the mood to tell you the more interesting parts, unless you’d like me to go at length about cute boys and the things that they say. Don’t get me wrong – I could. But I won’t. Because it’s still school, and bringing my out-of-school life into school… that’s not a marriage I’d like to see yet.
Oh my goodness I am not making sense at all. Tomorrow I’m going to bring this up and I’m going to print it and read it over and find this paper absolutely riddled with grammar mistakes and typos. So in case you were wondering, I’m actually giving up on Philosophy. Well, actually, I’m going to see how much Socratic questioning I can cram into one spare period, but for now, for tonight --- I’ve given up. It’s 2:06. God help me. There are 15 people online, but ten of them are set to “Away”. Who goes on MSN at 2:07??? Well, obviously, people like me, who like to waste time on Freetetris.Org and check Facebook every five minutes, thus dragging out their homework until 2:08. It’s 2:09. Can I say right now, if I’m actually reading this thing out loud, how sorry I am? I am truly sorry. I think I need the marks. You understand, don’t you? The song Nessun Dorma, sung by Luciano Pavarotti and Andrea Bocelli, from Puccini’s Turandot came up. It’s kind of weird, because I generally don’t listen to opera, but I love this song. I don’t understand Italian, though, and I’ve never seen the opera itself, so I don’t know the story of it. So I found this CD a few months ago in my parents CD shelf called Pavarotti and Friends, and it features ole’ Lucci doing duets with everyone from Stevie Wonder to the Spice Girls to Jon Bon Jovi. When Luciano Pavarotti gets together with Celine Dion, you know that magic is in the air. And it is. Magic is truly in the air. Oh my goodness, last line.
It’s 2:13. Good night.

a) I thought 2:13 was LATE.
b) OLE' LUCCI????
c) I was a cute kid.

It is 6:11 on Easter Sunday morning and I am sitting on a brown suede easy chair, watching the sun slowly rise across the city out of the corner of my window, listening to Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major.

Life is just a series of dances.