"He Immediately Accosted Them, And Presenting His Compliments, Invited Them To His Inn To Eat Macaroni...

I have a reoccurring dream of being alone in a dark room.

The room is pitch dark, but it’s the middle of the day, there’s a TV with bluish light, but it’s off and cable less. The windows are covered with sheets keeping all the light out, but a faint line of brightness coming under the door. There is a giant crimson velvet bed that has kind of a rounded edge, a feather comforter and pillow back headboard. I sit on the bed alone in a red cotton slip, shearing boots, and my hair in a half-up bouffant, with a sleep mask at its base pushed up on my forehead. By the side of the bed is a pile of brand-new counter culture books and glossy movies. On the other side is a room service tray of lobster and a punchbowl. I have no worries, nothing urgent to do. I don’t know what time it is, I don’t know what day it is, I have a friend who will call me in two months and wake me up. I could stay here in bed isolated forever. This place is completely cut-off from the world, even though it sits in the middle of the city, isolated in itself by anominity and by the height of the floor. I have a feeling that if I could find this place, I might be okay. Then I think I might finally feel safe, and right. If I had a few free months here, to rebuild, reform, I might get through this okay.
Like a cocoon. I’ll immerge with the perfect version of myself, and I’ll reform. I’ll call people back, answer letters, watch new TV, and find out about current events. And I’ll finally realize what the world is about, and if I really need other people to live, to stay sane.

Morning...

Somewhere in the depths of the city, a genius sits on a rooftop, watching the stars fade, and the sun rise again.
He’s smarter than words can even try to explain, but the idea of beauty alludes him. As hard as he tries, he cannot grasp it.
He stares intently, trying to see beyond the sky, trying to see the importance that it hides. Trying to see what he thinks the dreamers see, metaphors like the stars diamonds, on black velvet sky, or the moon a giant pearl.
But he just can’t.
When he looks at the sky, the stars, the sun, he can only see what they are, what they are supposed to be. Sources of light. Dead, burning rocks echoing their light back to earth. The sun just another star, that will one day die, and take so-called humanity with it.
He knows too much.
He’s seen too much
He’s seen so much more than he’s ever seen.
Alone of the rooftop, he contemplates whether he could actually be alone. He cannot see another living soul out there, just the sky stretched endlessly in front of him, inviting him on a journey he can’t ever take.
He wonders for a minute in the end of the world had come over night while he sat there. As if he is the only person left, he can’t see anyone else. Silly thoughts, he thinks for someone who’s supposed to be so smart.
But then, he hears them.
And all the thoughts, all the secrets, won’t leave him alone even isolated on the rooftop.

- Unmask: The Secret Lives Of Superheroes
...........

I Think I Deserve This Mood

Loving this song!! Also This is exactely how I feel right now.

PERFECT FIT
By the Dresden Dolls

i could make a dress
a robe fit for a prince
i could clothe a continent
but i can't sew a stitch

i can paint my face
and stand very very still
its not very practical
but it still pays the bills

i can't change my name
but i could be your type
i can dance and win at games
like backgammon and life

i used to be the smart one
sharp as a tack
funny how that skipping years ahead
has held me back

i used to be the bright one
top in my class
funny what they give you
when you just learn how to ask

i can write a song
but i cant sing in key
i can play piano
but i never learned to read

i can't trap a mouse
but i can pet a cat
no i'm really serious!
i'm really very good at that

i can't fix a car
but i can fix a flat
i could fix alot of things
but i'd rather not get into that

i used to be the bright one
smart as a whip
funny how you slip so far
when teachers dont keep track of it

i used to be the tight one
the perfect fit
funny how those compliments can
make you feel so full of it

i can shuffle cut and deal
but i can't draw a hand
i can't draw a lot of things

i hope you understand
i'm not exceptionally shy
but i've never had a man
that i could look straight in the eye
and tell my secret plans

i can take a vow
and i can wear a ring
and i can make you promises
but they won't mean a thing

can't you do it for me,
i'll pay you well
fuck i'll pay you anything
if you could end this

can't you just fix it for me,
it's gone berserk...
fuck i'll give you anything
if you can make the damn thing work

can't you just fix it for me,
ill pay you well,
fuck ill pay you anything
if you can end this

hello, i love you will you tell me your name?
hello, i'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same?

Well, I'm The King Of Brobdingnag About Now

You know who I miss about now?

The Fool from King Lear. He rocked my world. He just knew what to say, and he was never, ever afraid to say it! Also currently loving the idea of playing Regan. I would so rock that role, I can be bitchy, evil, conniving and seductive... well, oh course YOU know dear mockers.

Gotta say, I love how humour and satire can allow you to criticize even the strictest, off with their heads doctrine, because it makes it lighter and veiled. With a joke, you can say anything, things everyone else knows but is too afriad to say. The joke makes you safe.

This probably isn't a healthy way to feel. But when has mind mindset ever been anything that could be considered healthy or sane, darlings? I'm the girl who recently wrote a list of the 150 books I want to read/buy.
What's also incredibly awesome is how the life of a satirist (such as Mr. Voltaire) reads as much a fabulous story of eccentricity and social criticism, as does thier novels-exile,excommunication, debauchery, affairs, theft! Even artists, my pet example being renaissance painter Caravaggio, who murdered someone, multilated his cheating mistress and used drug addicts, the homeless, and prostitutes as models for saints, get in on the madness and the fever of the creation of art. Its like giving birth to something of meaning, rather then condemming another little angel to this uncertain purgetory of self-destruction.

Welcome back to the self destruction bridgade, safe here at the Ministry of Love. Yes, that's a coupling of perfected self hatred and wanton self destruction, a winning combination, a killer cocktail, Molitov in nature, naturely.

Excuse me for my absense, but I'm just getting back to my old happy-go-lucky self after a real seventh circle of hell cold (how weird is it that everyone wants to ask about swine flu, or test for swine flu, but no one will come right out and say it? its like second grade all over again, and I'm running around pretending to be Hermione, and all waiting for my owl, and its He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! {although I never did finish the last two books....I kinda lost interest})

Lately, I'm so mindless, going through the motions, that everything feels sleepy and eerily unreal, as if it's gone all diseased and blurry around the edges (maybe you have glacoma?)

"'Reality is nothing but a dream we're all having together.''That's deep!'"
- Middlesex, Jeffrey Eudgenies

And that is deep. Right now I am in dire need of some depth.

Question: The protag., Calliope in Middlesex (read it! Its family epic meets curiously ambigious gender! Sing O Greek Muses Of Tradgedy!), who has been living as a girl for fourteen years, and then tries to live as a guy (Cal), observes that to walk as a girl, you sway your hips (which as the would be reincarnation of old film goddesses, I certainly do), and as a boy you sway your shoulders. I've been trying to figure out if this is true.

Any observations?

I met Beethoven a few weeks ago. An impersonator (did anybody see the office episode where they get a Ben Franklin impersonator and get him to act all strippery and talk about scandels?- couldn't help thinking of it) came to my history class, danced for us, screamed in various german accents (the only language in which you can threaten I Love You) and called my teacher crazy and called out my principal on his tendency for useless announcements at nausem.

Cool guy... until at the end he shattered the allusion and spoke in his regular everyday voice and introduced himself as George, a struggling actor and dancer (although a Beethoven impersonator might be an interesting character for a book- with a secret BDSM life after hours)

My history teacher is a legend of eccentricity all on his own. He makes history come alive with interactive demos, role playing, music, fun movie clips (he let us watch Marie Antoinette, which happens to be my favourite movie- in class), and his personal acencdotes- particularily memorable is his meeting with Trudeau on a random park bench, where he didn't know who he was talking to and his love of Michaelle Jean. In my fourth period history class, we've made it a game of counting the interuptions- knocks on the door with surprisevisitors (however ungameshow worthy) or announcements calling students down to the principal, or listing skippers. Usually he just tries to talk over them, getting increasingly angry and loud. Frankly, he is as entertaining as the curiosities he teaches.

Bear, in mind mah-darlings, this is the same man who had us stop the school bus (on a field trip to the ROM and AGO) in the middle of a communter traffic ridden street, and ran down the street after the Mr. Tasti Freeze Ice Cream truck (which by the way are a few of my favourite things). Mere minutes later, he would return with two delectable chocolate vanilla twist cones, for him and the other supervisor, balanced precaroiusly in his hands as he ran like patented Phoebe Buffay running away from Satan (the neighbour's dog). Returning on board the bus, he was greeted by a chorus of premediated and planned slow claps and several thats-just-like-him sighs.

Re-Reading Neil Gaiman's macabre short story book, Smoke and Mirrors, I can't help but compare his PETA story, Babycakes, which suggests that if all the animals disapeared, we would turn to babies, the next most helpless and least vocal population, for food and things like leather, to Jonathan Swift's sartircal essay, A Modest Proposal:For Preventing the Children of Poor People in Ireland from Being a Burden to Their Parents or Country, and for Making Them Beneficial to the Public, while suggests eating them.

This is the stuff that keeeps a maudwin life interesting,

From the internet, you learn scary things, like the existence of Carebear BDSM fics. But its from insanity that you learn with bated breath, that you actually want to read it. Its all very rule 34. Think of something, the least sexy thing in existence, like a couch or a ficus- got it? Well, the internet has porn of it. And if it doesn't you are now morally obligated to write it.

Ah, the craziness of modern living- its like a cult of anonymous

I'm starting to think I might possibly be Manic Depressive. It would explain a lot, plus it would let me off the hook for so much transgression. But, while i do fit much of the criteria, I can't help but wonder if I'm just being dramatic and oh so typically hypochondric.

I really hate the word angst through it just seems so dismissive, as if my problems that are making me break down and cry and laugh myself into a frenzy at nothing, are just typical growing pains that no one has to worry about. And whenever, I confess, pained to my mother that I think I have a problem, she just asks me if I'm getting my period. Ironically and unintentionally sexist remarks from my feminist mother.

Another day's work in paradise.

"Scarecrow could only blink at the sight, gripping the arms of his chair in tight fists. Such a sweet child. Vandalising his fear factory. Yes. A sweet child. Were crayons water soluble?"

"There were a selection of tropical fish injected with a special dye that made them glow in various colours. With the club lights down low, they appeared to be glittering sprites moving through the dark water, eliciting delighted gasps from the bevy of young girls, who hadn’t quite shaken off the last remnants of their childhood, however hard they strived."

-Yes, she's got issues. The trouble is I'm wallowing in my childhood where i should be casting it off and declaring my independance.

In truth, books are my opiates and have been since I stopped being concerned with how good they tasted (hey! i was a baby!) and cracked them open to read the wonders of Go Dog Go (I like your hat), Little Miss Sunshine (not the movie! Remember Little Miss and Mister Men?) and Ballerina Bunny. I evolved out of bounds, reading both the books my classmates consumbed like Baby Sitter's Little Sister, Full House, Vampires Don't Wear Polka dots and Mary Kate And Ashley Mysteries at the same time as I consumbed Tolstoy, Steinbeck, Godot and increasingly obscure Shakespeare. Now i read anything and everything sometimes guilty pleasures and beach books, sometimes books to snark at, sometimes books to improve my mind, and increasingly, just to let myself laugh. Books are magic in that they really are doors to another world, where you can slip into a characters skin and have adventures and love, where you realize you really aren't so heartbreakingly alone, after all. Yes, I think it was Matilda that I got that from.

"As for the books she picks out for herself, the Bombshell likes an author who writes about someone like her (with compassion, of course). This is not out of vaniety, but rather because she feels misunderstood. Books about women like her teach her something about herself, about how to be herself, although it is important to realize that this is not narcissism but something more complicated and innocent. She adores Jack Kerouac and the all-American convertible driving blondes he meets along the way. She can relate to a man like Sal Paradise or Cody; they express the wanderlust she feels, too, but can't put into words. She is on her own road. "

- The Bombshell Manual of Style, Laren Stover

This is exately true. While I read Girly books, the Sex and The City of the printed word, like Shopaholic, Meg Cabot, Sisterhood Of The Travelling Pants and Rachel Cohn, it is also a clear indicator that I will love something if it has been in Playboy- you know when it was all 60's-70s pseudo intellectual. Case in point: Mailer, Kerouac, Kaftka, Palahniuk.

I am a book androgeny!

Why is something bad, just as wonderful as something good, if you get into the right frame of mind. I really want to sit down with friends, Mike and Ike's shaped like pills, and snark at Valley Of The Dolls.

What if I named myself Lullaby? These days the idea of picking out a new name, a pen name, a performance name, an alias, is endlessly attractive and tempting to me. I wanna be a suicide girl! I think I'm an exhibitionist. I want people to see me. My only modesty is negative body image, everything else is faked. If I didn't find myself fat and ugly, I wouldn't care who saw me naked.

I have to ask why even in a time that insists equality, even to the point where minorities or discriminatec groups, find themselves seeking superior treatment, a strikng contrast to what they seemed to crave, that a woman with lovers is a slut, while a man with them is just being king. At the same time, the gambling, compulsive shopping, war mongering king is remembered as great, while the Queen is Madame Defecit.

Its enough to start a one girl revolution, says poor Marie Antoinette who bore the brunt of this sexism, and does even still in history classes across the globe.

As a true testament to, times they are a changing, The Simpsons got a new HD intro, which incorporates substatntial nostaglia with remembered characters and references to the early family comedy years when the show wasn't trying to copy family guy for a ratings boost.

Thier classic antenna TV, is now a plasma.

Arent't somethings sacred?

Looking through my Ipod, the songs fit into a perfect call and response:

I Wanna Be Sedated

I Want A New Drug

I Want Candy

I Want Something Else

It's A Christmas Miracle, Star!
Signing Off now, Roger Wilco

Keep It Up, You're Doing Gret ! The City Girl Remix

So.....



I'm sitting here with a gigantic strawberry shaped lollipop...I can just skip ahead now, and pretty much tell you this doesn't end well. Although no crying jags to report thus far today, laughing jags, as always are in high supply. I should be doing homework, but I'm not. Specifically, I should be analyzing King Lear and researching Alexander Pope and Voltaire, but for some truly stupid reason, I'm not.



This was the lost weekend, where I did just about everything there was to do, expect my homework, which is just starting to seem horribly pointless to me. Yes, I admit it. I've fallen prey to the dreaded senioritis. At this point, I'm just trying to stay awake 'til graduation and prom. I mean everything's decribed, I have my university and I have my rockin' prom dress, now I'm just bored, nothing ever happens here.


Except yesturday, I climbed the CN tower (for the second time, cause I'm that awesome). Can you believe it, dah-lings? Me, the crazy child. And yes, I got paid to climd the thing. It pays to work for the health department.

So now I'm feeling pretty tired, and completely unready for school tommorrow. Hellman's Mayonise! I wish I could just fall asleep, but insomnia is a major mindfucker.

The CN tower climb is basically my personal hell. A few flights steps up, my legs start to shake and my knees in my cozy grey sweat shorts start to buckle underneath me...and I'm going down. This is when I feel like I'm dying, and seriously start to consider exactely how out of shape I am, promising myself (as I do just about every night before falling asleep, promising myself that the next day, I'll start the diet and go on the treadmill everyday again, but then never end up doing in the morning- God, I sound old and boring) to get back into my routines.
But then I find some chocolate... and its abandon hope all who enter here.
i'm weak.
So sue me.

Anyway, so about 30 flights up (there's about a 140), I suddenly get a burst of energy, and I'm flying up the stairs four at a time, jumping up and down during the breaks every 5 or so flights, feeling the rubber soles of my red sneakers resounding on the metal landing benaeth me. It's a pretty nice feeling, actually. Also, my voice gets really high and bubbly and I start to act and babble on like a five year old (as I often do if people spend enough time with me- I really don't need to be drunk to act drunk).

So, I end up climbing with two of my friends, one of whom was starting to have an asthsma attack (sidenote: World Asthsma day is next Tuesday! I'll be manning a booth at the Georgetown Mall, where will you be?), and needed us to keep resting in like ten minutes stretches. This was where I proved once and for all that I am a good friend (the best!), because even though I had the energy to go on, I just waited patiently entertaining myself by paying games in my head and yoga breathing.

Well, we quickly gave up on time, and just started to party up the stairwell, playing games, doing yoga on the landings, chatting up the paramedics and our fellow climbers (explaining like every ten steps, what our shirts said and what Denorm means), and then petting someone's seizure detecting dog for a while.
and me, the girl who slips into childishness when in group situations too long? I start screaming the worlds on the encouraging paintings made by elementary school kids that lined the stairwells (save the whales/snow leopards/ pandas {including the anorexic ones}/ owls/ iguanas, With every step you save an animal, and Keep it up you're almost there, and my ultimate favourite, You're Doing Gret! (who's Gret? Is he cute?) {seriously the spelling was as bad as Claudia Kishi- and that's saying something!}) and pretending I was a cheerleader. It was pretty entertaining actually, I realling think I deserve my own show, or at least a youtube show.

My friend ends up being the last person to climb the CN tower, trailing after the cute seizure dog because of her insistance that if she was going to be one of the last people up, she'd be THE last person up.
I love how after climbing all those steps, getting all tired and angry (especially when you think you're done and all the sadists at the welcoming doors congratulate you and stamp your timecard, and then you find out there's another fifteen flights of stairs to slog through), when you get to the top, you suddenly have all this energy, and feel like you could run a Polyester Marathon. That's when I went shopping. I need another pair of shoes, all mine are getting lonely.

And for some insane reason, everyone was afraid of the glass floor (we also tried to pour water through the grating on the observation deck- for future reference: it just makes the cement rim wet). I don't get it, to me its the best thing since sliced bread (but what was before that?), almost as cool as the pistashio in the spumoni (not a deli meat!) ice cream, which is strawberry, chocolate and pistashio we had later at the Old Spagetti Factory (still getting paid- It's a great job!).
Which is the most awesomly kitsch place ever (and you know how devoted to kitsch I am)! There's stained glass windows, caurosel horses, a streetcar you can eat in, tables perfect to reenact La Vie Boheme on, and even a candy store at the front! It's really my kind of place.

Our time on the climb was so ridiculously long, that I won't even post it here (a guy in our group was like the 35 person out of like a thousand. The same guy was later fined/ charged for not buying a train ticket on the way back). Later, when we were wandering around Toronto and Forever 21 (where I spent way too much money for someone who's supposed to be saying for university- but what can I say? I have an addictive personality) shopping our little hearts out, I would turn to her and say, I wonder what my time would have been if I'd done the climb in grade ten, when I was thin. This just makes her laugh, put a hand on my shoulder and say, But you had an eating disorder, Doll. You would have fainted or something.
True...

Other random moments?
Well today some random person said they loved me because I said consquently.
Consquently, I was freaked out.

Later, after not giving a homeless guy money, he damned me and my friend to hell. Because it's not a party without at least one eternal damnation.

Also, another friend of mine after, I was admiring this cherry red motorcycle and wishing I had one, launched into her whole Bella-Jacob-Edward: New Moon thing (...how facinating... Sarcasm sign!). I recieved yet another critcism of my klutziness. Which was ...fun, as always.

I have to say through, I love Toronto. This is my city, I was born here, and at some point I will have my own little Kensington Market apartment over a chinese food resturant and across from a bakery. This is pretty much as much of the future as I have planned other then my journalism career. I love how its like a little bohemian community right in the city. My mother used to live there (after she ran away from home) and one day she took me down there to go to Courage My Love (where I got this awesome 40's dress) , and we went by the little red house she lived in, that was split into four little apartments. After like 20 years, her furniture, the chairs and the dresser that she left behind, where still there moved out onto the front balcony and the stoops.
Awesome. Just awesome.
She also told me about how she lived in the building next to the bar where the Rolling Stones played a surprise show (her friend called to tell her, and she thought he was playing a trick on her), and she could hear them through the walls. Even cooler is the fact that my dad, who was like seventeen at the time was also there, trying to sneak in. But they didn't meet.

I want stories like this! But I never want to give them up to, settle down.
That's my horror story!

Back on topic...
I just love how all my friends are so scared of the city. The bored and raised Milton Lifers who had never been out of town, were freaking out on our vocal class trip to the Opera (La Traviatta with random bondage scenes) afraid that the homeless people would hurt them. Later, they were counting them.
My friend who I was shopping with, is kind of a suburb girl. She dislikes the noise and the rush of the city, and she really doesn't understand how exciting I think it is.
There was a Jamacian guy by the Go Station playing the bongos and wishing everyone luck a sthey passed by. He said May life take you places and may where life takes yiu, be an adventure.
There was also a guy painted in silver glitter paint (Tobias?) pretending to be a Elvis statue and dancing to Hound Dog outside the Eaton Centre. The guy who chalks outside the other Eaton Centre doors was drawing Batman, and people were giving out packs of gum in the street. And the air was full of music from the guy playing the guitar down the road.
It's a magic place.

What a supremely awesome day.
But will I ever do it again? Only time will tell.

-Star

Resistance To Existance Is Futile

Sometimes I enjoy not making sense.

Today just happens to be one of those days, Aren't you lucky?

Today, when the bell rang, ending my history class and the school day, I looked down at my paper and found that somewhere within that painstakingly long 75 minute stretch, I had scribbled this all over my notes.

I blame Catherine the Great.

What have we become?

We are Oxymorons

I am the sun and the heir

But ugly monsters like him.

The kids are all alright?

They say it like it's true

I really doubt that....

The Queen is thier slave

The girl has dead eyes

The sink overflows

Neopotism is thick in our blood

I don't pity him at all

And I am 1871 and in love with chaos

Which will never fit in fourteen lines

I don't know anything anymore

Forgotten how to ride a bike, to tie my shoe laces tight

And we are going tumbling into hell

If you don't understand Shakespeare,

It's about sex

Deep down it all is

Gone baby's gone

She grew up so well

Am I a Yahoo?

Tell me you do

I'm cut of a different cloth

Sitting in the back row with bubblegum dreams

I'd praise the flanderer for want of funny words

Worship at the altar of love affairs

Find a thousand guys name Adam Smith for a tidbit of intellectual thought

We Bail out the econmy, but not the dead girl sold up river

Nineteen year boys, who sit across from me fight the wars of governments, I don't understand

If I only had a brain

If he only had a heart

If we only had the nerve

I don't even have a home

Fuck this!

I'm getting cheese fries.

I'm so out of here.

I am such a screw up. I can't even write my own messsed up stuff anymore, i have to steal it from songs and passing conversation.

It's a very good thing that, I am a fast copier of notes, or else I wouldn't have anything to show for being in school at all.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm even there at all.....

I don't think, therefore I'm not? That's math I can't even do!

-History's youngest child on Artificial Sweetener.

No Spelled Y-E-S : (Girl Least Likely To Be) Prom Queen

I'm sorry for being such a bad blogger lately.
But I've just been weirdly busy and randomly tired (at work today, I felt and acted like a little kid, I seriously think that the more I learn, the less I know and the less mature I seem to get)

I'm just going to say, that Sunday I fell in love.

Not with another of my perfectly pale, wide eyed slacker indie boys, but with a dress.
A prom dress, to be exact. My perfect dress, like a movie star dress.
The perfect dress for a "Wow, she grew up" moment, as I desend some random stairs some where.

I never thought my dream dress would be a long turquoise (the colour is actually called capri blue) duchess satin strapless mermaid dress, with a fitted bodice (I love that word- bodice! Like a trashy romance novel- consumed like pastries by some lonely widow). In truth, my favourite part of the dress, is the little blue satin buttons up the back, the one thing constant in my childhood imaginings of wedding dresses.

I am so in love with this dress. It was the first dress I tried on, and the only one of the huge stack of dresses, my mother gave me to try on, that I actually picked out for myself.
And I just knew it had to be the one.

I have always loved that moment, when you're shopping and you find the perfect thing, something that makes you look and feel unbelievably beautiful. The feel good moment, when the feel good music around you swells and you look in the 360 mirror (like something out of what not to wear) and wonder if that beautiful girl with the big crystal blue eyes, the milky skin and the dark wavy hair can possibly be the same ugly little girl you see in the mirror every morning.

But of course, the dressmaker had to ruin the magic by asking if I had a date,
a question which only served to make me laugh, and to come crashing back to earth and reality.
Yeah....right......like anyone would ever love me.

On a happier note,
All I need now, is a quick Kensington Market trip (Courage My Love!) for hyper unique accessories, which is currently set to follow the long awaited (and somewhat dreaded) CN Tower climb on Saturday ( I love how everyone keeps thinking we're climbing up the outside of it).

Wish me luck my Darlings.
Cause I'm just here wishing for you.