Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Blah
It has been an increasingly long time since my last period, so as you can imagine I'm starting to get worried about it. Then again, it is that special time of the month, and therefore I can't really be expected to take this to seriously. So, not until the Olympics are done will I be writing any real posts. Too much drinking and ass sitting to do. See you all soon.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Fam-Jam
Spending time with my family is always an eventful occasion. As I now live apart from them, getting us all together at one time is unusual, but also quite comfortable. When I refer to these moments, I am not talking about extended family, ie. aunts, uncles, cousins; I am talking about the core unit that up until this past year and a half I spent my entire life around. So yeah, this would be the mom: Jane, the sista: J-Hawk, and that bald man: John. Although I still live in the same city as all of these people, seeing them seems to be rather infrequent, but when I do see them it is never a disappointment. As all families are different: the way they interact, and the way they treat each other, I believe that each unit can use a metaphor or simile, a literary function, to help others understand what their family lives are like.
Seeing my family is like finding an old shirt in the dumpster in the ally behind my house. I could have sworn I threw it out years ago once I had outgrown it, but no, here it is, still in the dumpster. Despite it's unfashionable condition I decide to try it on for old times sake. It fits very tightly and reeks a bit of shit, but I endure it because I used to love this shirt. After strutting around the ally in it for about fifteen minutes, large tears have opened up in the sides and it is a lot more breathable, finally agreeing with my matured anatomy. I think to myself: "Hey, this really isn't as bad as I remember, why did I ever give up on this shirt? I love you...shirt." Ten minutes later I've developed a rash; I'm pretty sure there was rat feces in the collar, and I'm beginning to swell. Suddenly, I'm suffocating and can hardly think clearly. With my last ounce of strength I rip off the shirt and throw it in the fire; I collapse unconscious in a bathtub full of ice cubes.
Now, although this may seem like an exaggeration, I assure you, it's not. No one gets along with their family 100% percent of the time and obviously I am no different. I love my parents...yeah, that sounds about right, and despite my palpable lack of association with them, I still like to consider them my own. Their mine, God damn it, mine.
This past Friday was my mother's 56th birthday, and while she may not indulge this bitty of information to others, I have no problem telling the world of her prolonged life. What do I care? I'm not even twenty yet; fuck yeah to youth. Anyways, as any family might arrange, we went out to dinner on the following night. The Sandbar was the desired location; situated on Granville Island directly under the Granville Street Bridge; it is quite a nice play to eat. We planned to meet up around 7:15; I was fashionably late, no doubt. As I sat down I was greeted with warm smiles and a drink order. Yes, finally, about time, fucking Christ. I order a Caesar, of course (On a side note I'd like to mention that anyone who doesn't like a good Caesar is a fool.), and quickly polish it off; I order another. Fortunately, the catch-up game is brief; the members of my family know enough about each other to assume what everyone's been up to. Dad: retirement = cabin reservations, sports, coaching, who gives a fuck? J-Hawk: high school, sports, being a dumb 17 year old girl. Mom: work, dog walking....stuff. And then me: personally, I don't think my parents want to know 50% of the stuff I do: procrastinating, binge drinking, drug abuse, unprotected sex, beastiality, etc. I let them know anyway. Laughs all round.
Now I don't have a problem with a little inner-family abuse, in fact, most times it can become quite funny. Someone poking fun at the way someone looks or the way someone talks instantly becomes a family classic that we can all look back on with no hard feelings. Most notably was the time where we all insisted that my sister sported a most fashionable mustache. Which in turn led to the mockery of my inability to grow facial hair. Which in turn led to the inability of my father to grow normal hair. Which in turn led to the physical abuse of my mother later that night. A haha; that be family classic material.
So we're at dinner discussing one thing or another, and soon the conversation turns to my sister's new crazy fantasy that she wants to pick up ATV-ing and dirt biking. Because of the shear ridiculousness of the conversation I refused to take it seriously, but to my surprise my parents were not completely against the idea. Something about building character, I don't fucking know, I was on my fourth Caesar and was really starting to get a buzz going. The only real concern they had was safety. Apparently falling off one of these moving motor vehicles is quite dangerous to ones own health, who would have known? So my parents start laying down some ground rules; stuff about speed, terrain, visibilty, what time of day it is, etc. But their biggest point was to wear a helmet. Although the idea of survival when one falls off an ATV is almost juvenile, they could not stress the helmet enough. My Dad goes: "Helmets save lives; it can be the deciding factor on whether you live, or you die." My sister nods her head; she's got one of those "I obviously get it, I don't want to fucking die" looks on her face; I laugh into my drink. My Dad contines: "Riding a bike with no helmet is one thing, riding a motorcycle without one is just asking for trouble. Your toying with death." My sister's head completes the motions: up and down, up and down. Finally, my dad concludes: "You fall off one of those things you could paralyze your self for life, maybe die! Or for all we know, even worse! You want to end up like your brother?" I inhale an icecube. There are no smiles on either of my parents faces; are they fucking with me, or what?
Like I said earlier, I'm keen on a good laugh; a sense of humour is definately what brings my family closer together. But if theres one thing I don't like, it's to be fucked with, especially by my parents. I get the feeling that everytime I see them they've been conspiring to fuck with me the whole period in which I haven't seen them. I'm beginning to understand the long drawn out durations in which I spend away from them. Oh well, an eventful dinner as usual; at least they're giving me something to write about.
Seeing my family is like finding an old shirt in the dumpster in the ally behind my house. I could have sworn I threw it out years ago once I had outgrown it, but no, here it is, still in the dumpster. Despite it's unfashionable condition I decide to try it on for old times sake. It fits very tightly and reeks a bit of shit, but I endure it because I used to love this shirt. After strutting around the ally in it for about fifteen minutes, large tears have opened up in the sides and it is a lot more breathable, finally agreeing with my matured anatomy. I think to myself: "Hey, this really isn't as bad as I remember, why did I ever give up on this shirt? I love you...shirt." Ten minutes later I've developed a rash; I'm pretty sure there was rat feces in the collar, and I'm beginning to swell. Suddenly, I'm suffocating and can hardly think clearly. With my last ounce of strength I rip off the shirt and throw it in the fire; I collapse unconscious in a bathtub full of ice cubes.
Now, although this may seem like an exaggeration, I assure you, it's not. No one gets along with their family 100% percent of the time and obviously I am no different. I love my parents...yeah, that sounds about right, and despite my palpable lack of association with them, I still like to consider them my own. Their mine, God damn it, mine.
This past Friday was my mother's 56th birthday, and while she may not indulge this bitty of information to others, I have no problem telling the world of her prolonged life. What do I care? I'm not even twenty yet; fuck yeah to youth. Anyways, as any family might arrange, we went out to dinner on the following night. The Sandbar was the desired location; situated on Granville Island directly under the Granville Street Bridge; it is quite a nice play to eat. We planned to meet up around 7:15; I was fashionably late, no doubt. As I sat down I was greeted with warm smiles and a drink order. Yes, finally, about time, fucking Christ. I order a Caesar, of course (On a side note I'd like to mention that anyone who doesn't like a good Caesar is a fool.), and quickly polish it off; I order another. Fortunately, the catch-up game is brief; the members of my family know enough about each other to assume what everyone's been up to. Dad: retirement = cabin reservations, sports, coaching, who gives a fuck? J-Hawk: high school, sports, being a dumb 17 year old girl. Mom: work, dog walking....stuff. And then me: personally, I don't think my parents want to know 50% of the stuff I do: procrastinating, binge drinking, drug abuse, unprotected sex, beastiality, etc. I let them know anyway. Laughs all round.
Now I don't have a problem with a little inner-family abuse, in fact, most times it can become quite funny. Someone poking fun at the way someone looks or the way someone talks instantly becomes a family classic that we can all look back on with no hard feelings. Most notably was the time where we all insisted that my sister sported a most fashionable mustache. Which in turn led to the mockery of my inability to grow facial hair. Which in turn led to the inability of my father to grow normal hair. Which in turn led to the physical abuse of my mother later that night. A haha; that be family classic material.
So we're at dinner discussing one thing or another, and soon the conversation turns to my sister's new crazy fantasy that she wants to pick up ATV-ing and dirt biking. Because of the shear ridiculousness of the conversation I refused to take it seriously, but to my surprise my parents were not completely against the idea. Something about building character, I don't fucking know, I was on my fourth Caesar and was really starting to get a buzz going. The only real concern they had was safety. Apparently falling off one of these moving motor vehicles is quite dangerous to ones own health, who would have known? So my parents start laying down some ground rules; stuff about speed, terrain, visibilty, what time of day it is, etc. But their biggest point was to wear a helmet. Although the idea of survival when one falls off an ATV is almost juvenile, they could not stress the helmet enough. My Dad goes: "Helmets save lives; it can be the deciding factor on whether you live, or you die." My sister nods her head; she's got one of those "I obviously get it, I don't want to fucking die" looks on her face; I laugh into my drink. My Dad contines: "Riding a bike with no helmet is one thing, riding a motorcycle without one is just asking for trouble. Your toying with death." My sister's head completes the motions: up and down, up and down. Finally, my dad concludes: "You fall off one of those things you could paralyze your self for life, maybe die! Or for all we know, even worse! You want to end up like your brother?" I inhale an icecube. There are no smiles on either of my parents faces; are they fucking with me, or what?
Like I said earlier, I'm keen on a good laugh; a sense of humour is definately what brings my family closer together. But if theres one thing I don't like, it's to be fucked with, especially by my parents. I get the feeling that everytime I see them they've been conspiring to fuck with me the whole period in which I haven't seen them. I'm beginning to understand the long drawn out durations in which I spend away from them. Oh well, an eventful dinner as usual; at least they're giving me something to write about.
Shout Out
Before I write anything I'd just like to give a shout out to my good friend Scott Mason. The guy's been on blogspot since late 2008, and has been writing some interesting stuff on almost anything that comes to mind. This includes music, film, Vancouver, and stuff just going on in his life. In fact, he just wrote a compelling piece on the traumatics of post-party events. If anyone is reading this I insist that you check out his page at:
www.lifeofscottmason.blogspot.com
You won't regret it.
www.lifeofscottmason.blogspot.com
You won't regret it.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Think Tank
Time seems to be passing me by quicker than it ever has, and yet, here I am, still sitting on the couch. Another Wednesday night comes, and soon: it will be gone. Be assured, people; it will. Sometimes, I tend to question where my life is taking me, and how it will all happen. As of late, my life seems to be rather uninteresting, forcing me to take time out of my day to really think about such puzzles. I won't lie to you, I have a set procedure for such times. Generally, I stand with my back against the wall, the top half of my body contorted into a God like pose; the light shimmering off my marble like physique. I figure the best pondering takes place when pretending to seem more important than you actually you are, like a bag of douche would. I arch my eyebrows, and bat my eye lashes. I am silent, and then suddenly, I am animated. I weep, I moan, I croon out to the heavens. I invoke the very Gods I tossed aside years ago to aid me in my conquest...and then something catches my eye.
Because my house doesn't have nearly enough space for all my needs, I have combined the living room with my personal study/ think tank/ pretend I'm a genius room. Yes, this one room has many devices, all of which are drawn on several times a day. Anyways, the T.V.'s on, that thing with the moving pictures, and I can't help but notice that it's reflecting a lot more light than normal. And seeing how it's almost the midnight hour, and there is little to no natural light, nor light created by light bulbs to be found, I find this quite strange. Fuck, I mean seriously, I can hardly even look at it it's so bright, let alone think about destiny and what not. As I'm already wearing a dark pair of shades, I throw on a second, but that doesn't fucking work so I take them both off. You may be asking why I wear sunglasses in the house, especially when it's so late, and my answer to you is this: all those hip young teens in the beach movies do it, they seem to get a lot of attention, so I figure, why not? Also, I once knew a guy, I think his name was something like Matt Pearle, I can't remember, he's not that significant. Anyways, me and this clown were just hanging out at this party one time, he was getting real philosophical on me, laying some heavy shit down. To tell you the truth I wasn't paying attention in the slightest, he was rambling. But at the very end of the conversation, he lowers his head and pulls down his glasses a tad; his eyes were bloodshot, and he had tears welling up. "That's why I wear these." Then he winked, got up, and I never saw him again.
Fuck, sidetracked, back to the present.
I kneel down right in front of the T.V. and start dialing down the brightness. Slowly, I begin to understand why I was having so much trouble seeing before. World's Strongest Man is on. If you don't understand already, let me explain. If you only thought morons resided in North America, how wrong you were. This show compiles all the bald, sweaty, idiots from around the world, hoards them on to some beach in like, Miami, and gets them to lift "practical" objects, and other bullshit items. These guy's heads are like crystal balls, they have the albedo of snow. If a normal human being had the skin tone of lets say, the Earth, these guys would have to be the Sun. Then the Jersey Shore guys would be like Venus...or Uranus. HA!
As I watch muscle bloated men throws kegs over power lines, and squat trailers full of hay, I can't help but start to think about my life again. Funny how life works like that, huh? But just when I thought it couldn't get any crazier, these "fierce competitors" begin to carry fucking sedans across some sort of makeshift road. I ask myself, what in the fuck am I doing with my life?
It's bad enough I'm enrolled in university, but the fact that I'm not lifting some car like fucking Fred Flintstone is ridiculous. Come on, I could be doing this, making something out of myself, but instead I'm out getting some sort of "education," creating a fulfilling future. Please, I know whats important when I see it and this has got to be one of those things. No longer will I need to put away hours of thought into my life, asking the Gods for guidance, and sacrificing small items for answers. I know what I must do. What if my car ever breaks down out on the highway? Sit there and wait for a tow truck? I don't think so. The only thing worth considering is bottoming it out, maybe relieving it of some important parts, and then running that fucker home.
Because my house doesn't have nearly enough space for all my needs, I have combined the living room with my personal study/ think tank/ pretend I'm a genius room. Yes, this one room has many devices, all of which are drawn on several times a day. Anyways, the T.V.'s on, that thing with the moving pictures, and I can't help but notice that it's reflecting a lot more light than normal. And seeing how it's almost the midnight hour, and there is little to no natural light, nor light created by light bulbs to be found, I find this quite strange. Fuck, I mean seriously, I can hardly even look at it it's so bright, let alone think about destiny and what not. As I'm already wearing a dark pair of shades, I throw on a second, but that doesn't fucking work so I take them both off. You may be asking why I wear sunglasses in the house, especially when it's so late, and my answer to you is this: all those hip young teens in the beach movies do it, they seem to get a lot of attention, so I figure, why not? Also, I once knew a guy, I think his name was something like Matt Pearle, I can't remember, he's not that significant. Anyways, me and this clown were just hanging out at this party one time, he was getting real philosophical on me, laying some heavy shit down. To tell you the truth I wasn't paying attention in the slightest, he was rambling. But at the very end of the conversation, he lowers his head and pulls down his glasses a tad; his eyes were bloodshot, and he had tears welling up. "That's why I wear these." Then he winked, got up, and I never saw him again.
Fuck, sidetracked, back to the present.
I kneel down right in front of the T.V. and start dialing down the brightness. Slowly, I begin to understand why I was having so much trouble seeing before. World's Strongest Man is on. If you don't understand already, let me explain. If you only thought morons resided in North America, how wrong you were. This show compiles all the bald, sweaty, idiots from around the world, hoards them on to some beach in like, Miami, and gets them to lift "practical" objects, and other bullshit items. These guy's heads are like crystal balls, they have the albedo of snow. If a normal human being had the skin tone of lets say, the Earth, these guys would have to be the Sun. Then the Jersey Shore guys would be like Venus...or Uranus. HA!
As I watch muscle bloated men throws kegs over power lines, and squat trailers full of hay, I can't help but start to think about my life again. Funny how life works like that, huh? But just when I thought it couldn't get any crazier, these "fierce competitors" begin to carry fucking sedans across some sort of makeshift road. I ask myself, what in the fuck am I doing with my life?
It's bad enough I'm enrolled in university, but the fact that I'm not lifting some car like fucking Fred Flintstone is ridiculous. Come on, I could be doing this, making something out of myself, but instead I'm out getting some sort of "education," creating a fulfilling future. Please, I know whats important when I see it and this has got to be one of those things. No longer will I need to put away hours of thought into my life, asking the Gods for guidance, and sacrificing small items for answers. I know what I must do. What if my car ever breaks down out on the highway? Sit there and wait for a tow truck? I don't think so. The only thing worth considering is bottoming it out, maybe relieving it of some important parts, and then running that fucker home.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Two hours of Sleep...
I was up all last night writing a 2000 word essay...now I'm sitting in class. Yeah, I'm not really paying attention, one could go as far to say I'm fucking around. Big time.
If you haven't seen this before, I made this probably last summer. Originally I made it for a friend's computer background; I then went on to put it on my laptop and perhaps a few other peoples.
This is a new creation. I'm too tired to listen...apparently not too tired to make these though.
Haha, yeah, I'm pretty sure this is awesome.
Yes, consider this my masterpiece.
Feel free to make these your background, I hope you find them as funny as I do.
Then again, I'm on two hours sleep, in that state of mind where everything is fucking hilarious.
Yeah!!!
If you haven't seen this before, I made this probably last summer. Originally I made it for a friend's computer background; I then went on to put it on my laptop and perhaps a few other peoples.
This is a new creation. I'm too tired to listen...apparently not too tired to make these though.
Haha, yeah, I'm pretty sure this is awesome.
Yes, consider this my masterpiece.Feel free to make these your background, I hope you find them as funny as I do.
Then again, I'm on two hours sleep, in that state of mind where everything is fucking hilarious.
Yeah!!!
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