So I'm working on this forestry economics assignment. determining optimal rotation age based on stumpage value, growth rates, blah blah. Basically, complicated looking equations are used and extrapolated in an excel spreadsheet. I understood the first equations we were doing, mostly because I had my library friend the finance major helping me. Maths can be sort of gratifying when you punch in numbers (on a calc. borrowed from said friend) and they come out right, and tick tick tick everything has its place and you are done. Well, obviously this part isn't quite working out. I found myself sitting in the library after hours of trying and failing. I started getting all hot and flustered, having these deep seeded feelings of utter ineptitude, the origins of which are high school math. If I cant do this, I am a failure as a person and I will go nowhere. Fucking high school math. Just as I was feeling like I might just run home with hot tears down my face, I remembered that I stopped believing that at about age 16 (drivers license time, likely not a coincidence). Still, most things are potentially understandable to me if I just put in enough time. Not so with math. It is like a cruel joke everyone agreed to play on me.
Because HOW ELSE can 0x0=17.3!?!?!?
I could be eating half price nachos at Sneaks! ok no, I needed a night in. sick sick like blah. That probably contributed to all of this.


oh god. so I am one of those fast walkers. I love making friends with other fastwalkers because then when we hang out, I don't have to constantly make mental notes to slow my pace. As a fast walker I have also perfected the art of passing. So I was walking home today and rapidly coming up behind this guy. A few metres away he slightly turns his head, and I realize it is this guy! shit, well I don't want to have to pass him! I have successfully avoided contact with him since 'the incident'. So I suddenly slow my pace, but he is walking much slower than I, and he keeps sort of turning his head so it becomes clear that he is expecting someone to be passing him. The slower pace didnt work either, because he clearly heard someone quickly walking up behind them and then suddenly slow about 3 metres away, plus I was still walking faster than him. Hang outs with him would be a pain. I couldnt break out into fast walk again, so I just hovered behind him for a bit until I passed him, at which point I pretended to just notice it was in fact him. I learned my lesson. quick hey and medium pace away. geez.

So I saw Dan Deacon last night with raymi. The first thing he said to the crowd was something like "magical mushrooms are good for everyone. But I'm not on them." It became pretty clear that he was. He started bad vibing and insulting the scene, and then he started getting the audience to make these really irritating sounds, it was quite odd. But props to him for making a look out of dirty, fat and sweaty.
I got stupid drunk at karaoke afterwards. the kind of drunk where I was weaving on and off the sidewalk on the way home and this morning I woke up half dressed. The pants managed to come off, but I broke the goddamned zipper! My A-game replacements!

red and sore

I thought I was too old for acne. adult acne sucks more than the teenager kind

hold on tight

Yay! now I can start posting wide pictures without them fucking up the format. Time for some ones I've been saving!
Also- whats with this horse theme of mine? actually I've always sort of hated horses, but they are really the innocent victims of my deep mistrust/uncomfortable feelings toward horse girls. The pre/peri-pubesent girls who ride (sorry S) and their horses are these symbolic and literal sexual objects, big, hard throbbing muscles upon which they straddle, squeeze their thighs to hold on. And paradoxically, other than S, I associate it with this prissiness. Subversively sexual prissiness.
Like, who is that girl in the picture going to grow up to be? I'll bet she'll like Daddy sex talk and big fucking dildos (in my mind, all horse girls like big dildos )

well it was another wild and crazy weekend for the ever awesome and in demand cbt. Friday was free beers at the bar after the beer tap sprayed on me and I acted all exasperated yet stoic (is that possible?), insisted on a napkin etc etc. Last night was a first- I literally danced all night. To house music at that! Went with D and some of his friends. Drank lots of water. pupils dilated. I had a great time. At about 6am I went to the washroom and this 34 year old woman was talking to some chicks she didnt know about how she has a 12 year old daughter and "actually kids are a lot of work, but my mom has my daughter now. And are you coming to the comfort zone (a club that pretty much gets started at 6or7 am), oh no you are the designated driver, hey I learned to drive stick while I was on e, my friend even 'G'ed out in the back seat. And isnt this so much fun, PARTY!
That is when I decided it was time to go home.

Did another focus group. this time it was an hour of rating ads for yeast infection treatment. For 60$, it's not so bad. The only thing is that I always come out of those things feeling sick to my stomach. I once had a job doing market research- calling people and doing surveys, mostly on tires.The job didn't give me that sick feeling, but i think the difference is that with the job, I could pretend I was separate/above all that crap, that I knew their tricks and I wasn't a part of it. well, maybe I know the tricks, but fuck if I'm not a part of it. They are marketing to me. They want me to form loyalties. I do. oh shit, it is all disgusting and then I get on the subway at rush hour and we are going here or there, to or from work all looking miserable. Next it's to the store to spend the money on the brands that "meet my needs" that are "supportive", "approachable" and "really understand me".
To make matters worse, I bought a cinnabon at the subway station. I can't remember the last time i had one of those. What was I thinking; talk about depression in a box. The cinnamon smell caught me, it was dinnertime. Now it is half eaten, stinking up my room. Like the rest, the smell was full of promise but it was sickly sweet, dense yet devoid and has left a bitter taste in my mouth. the packaging reminds me of shitty mall food courts, redish lighting from heat lamps, the smell of at least a dozen forms of grease.
angsty? yes

I will never tire of this video. When I first saw it I definitely started liking the song more.
Michel Gondry pretty much has my dream career. me and 10 million other won't-bes

NO! I was getting myself all pumped up for the timbersports competition I was going to compete in (!!!!) this weekend. Alas, they don't need me. its all over. Who knows when I will next get the change to chop wood competitively. Although to tell the truth, I was already getting nervous about the axe throw. Have you lifted a full sized axe lately? it's no hatchet. oh god whenever i think about it i get gorey horrible visions of things gone wrong.
The double bummer is that it is taking place outside of Montreal, so Saturday night would have been erica time!
Montreal will have to wait

Seen in a bathroom stall, engineering library on campus:

Did you know that there are mites in your eyelashes and eyebrows and peepee hairs?!?! Go get a Brazilian girls!
This is probably obvious, but: the use of "peepee" hairs almost makes me feel queasy. this person better be a virgin. Are they seriously not comfortable with anonymously writing 'pubic'? The fact that it was in the engineering library drastically lowers the chances of the author using 'peepee' in jest. Also, there are bugs everywhere, who gives a shit. Off the top of my head, I can think of at least 5 better reasons to get a Brazilian.

Another reason to be embarrassed for North Americans

I went to El Convento Rico on Friday. It is a funny mix of gay men and their hags, tight knit groups of friends (I think the tight knit part comes from being a little freaked out), the over 40 newly single set and latin guys who want to get laid. The latin guys who want to get laid are slightly more tolerable than the white/Canadian aggressive guy who want to get laid because they can really dance. That also makes it a lot harder to play the ‘is he gay or straight’ game. That is until they go for a crotch grind. Bleh. A swift “NOT Interested” and pull away took care of those. I mostly tuned out the world and dance dance danced. At one point I could see this guy sidling up to me really slowly. Where usually I would slowly keep moving away until he got the point, this time I just stopped him and said “are you seriously creeping up to me? Next time try using a line, ask to dance. But not me please.” It made things easier on everyone and I am totally doing that from now on.
Every weekend the Rico has a drag show in the middle of the dance floor. It went on a little long, but it was a lot of fun (Sonfonda Cox is my faves. Think a feminine, awesome Tyra Banks). It made me think about how great drag queens are, doing their thing- you know they weren’t pressured into the drag world by their family.
Last night was a birthday party at a condo. Sadly, the dancing was minimal. I didn’t even bust out the jazz hands. But it was good times anyway.

Went dancing last night. Going dancing tonight. Tonight I am going to be sure to incorporate more jazz hands and sweeps across the dancefloor.

my favorite part is the photoshopped glint.

I need to learn more about his symbolic importance in the cold war, and his eventual renunciation of his American citizenship. According to CNN he was grateful for 9/11, but as we all know, anyone who didn't immediately say "nuke 'em" was flogged as a traitor, so I'll take that with a grain of salt for now.
Same age as my dad would've been. At what age do you think, ok they've lived a full life, they didn't die too soon.


One of the thousands of projects I never followed through on was this video idea my friend and I had in 1st year. It was to consist entirely of various older men looking into the camera and saying "Panties".

So I'm on my way home, having an inner battle: Cora pizza mmm..., NO trying to be super frugal, mmm pizza, No I have eaten out way too much since I got back to Toronto, but veggies! garlic! fresh doughy bread! sauce!, No I have pasta ready to be cooked at home. Ok pizza. I walk to the front door and there is Papa Cora, sitting inside apron on with 2/3s of his index finger hooked up his nose, elbow jutting out at 90degrees. really digging at it. ok, pasta.
Then on the way home I remembered how an old roommate once went in there late at night and Cora was there pissed drunk. Roomie ordered a vegetarian slice and Cora apparently went on about how that was the right decision- he won't let his family touch most of the meat there. And hs minions shifted about uncomfortably (so I was told). ew

mug shot

upon request, here is what the offending pen looks like. This one is from the same box, but hasn't leaked.... yet. Even for writing the pens are inconsistent, stopping and starting on certain papers. the ink generally comes oozing out the bottom, or top if it happens while I'm using it.
unrelated-FUCK, last week I accidentally deleted my adobe illustrator, instead of just the shortcut. goddammit. Now I need to get my hands on another free copy.
Since I am going into such excrutiating detail anyway, here are the pants, for your judgement. Note the belt- after a week of soaking and blotting the stains in rubbing alcohol, I am giving them a chance. Also note the weird crotch thing going on

also- you can barely see it, but in the background is a overloaded outlet featuring the jesus nightlight given to me by the wonderful erica!

the other day at the drug store I let out a thick one and gave the woman beside me the most disgusted and grossed out look I could muster, as if the power of the glare alone would transcend all logic and make her feel guilty.

Sometimes I get paralyzed by the thought of how quickly life breezes by, and how impossible it is to hold onto it. With every year that passes, I seem to better understand the obsession with time. time is on your side. I can't trace time. time is passing you by. time keeps on slipping, slipping into the future. time is a force. time is running out. if I could turn back time. these are the times to remember. If your time to you is worth savin'. time baby, is catching up with you. time keeps flowing like a river.

How about this lame line from the Byrds 'turn, turn, turn:
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing
Thats the best they could come up with? its like the song was poorly translated into english, and the guy couldn't think of the word 'separate' or 'be apart'

So I'm finally back in the habit of going to the gym regularly. Its great cause at least for now it isn't feeling like a chore, it is nice. I bring a book, listen to music, sweat. I don't even worry about the haters- the fucking snobs who think if you are reading, you must not being working hard enough. And the meatheads in the weight room stopped being intimidating years ago. Then comes my favorite part of all- the steam room. loooove the steam room. my curls go all bushwoman. Then its off to the showers for a good-hurt coconut brush scrubdown that leaves my skin slightly raw, clean and soft. basically, I am at my purest.
So last week I had an awesome work out, while reading the amazing JPod. I was feeling good, vital. all Pump it UP, pump it. then steam, scrub, lotion up. yeah. I am pulling on my pants and notice this black streak on my leg. I yank them back off to find my legs covered in thick black streaks. A fucking pen leaked in my pocket. not just any pocket- the pocket of my new A-game jeans! it was one of those goddamned staples pens I bought a case of. They leaked on me at LEAST 4 times before. My new A-GAME pants! And yeah, a lot of black ink all over my legs. back to the showers.
So now I have to ask myself 4 questions:
-what the fuck was I doing putting one of those time bombs in my pants pocket?
-Am I going to go through with writing staples a letter, like I claimed I would do after the last leaky pen?
-Am I going to continue using the rest of these piece of shit pens? (yes.)
-Can I get away with wearing pants that have two black stains the size of a quarter and a dime on outer crotch area? They ARE gray pants. I know I will continue to wear them, so I guess the question is: can they possibly still be salvaged as my A-gamers?
I wrote all this about a fucking ink stain? oh shit

oh my god, a drawing game broke out today and I WASN'T EVEN THE ONE TO SUGGEST IT! It was pictionary, the vanilla of drawing games- in the good, classic, standard way.
These days I actually carry a folder with blank sheets (and black, not blue, pens) in my bag, for just such an occasion. Our pictionary game was up and running in seconds!

living it

I am no longer sleeping hamster style! I got a mattress in my new place! this replaces my makeshift bed consisting of (in order starting from the floor. actually, just the sub floor during december):
1 blanket
1 large parka
1 1-inch thick egg-crate style foamy
1 more blanket- that awesome kind they have in hospitals and carhartt makes hoodies out of.
1 set of sheets, a pillow and blanket for sleeping under.
I rolled it to the side most days, so at night I was literally making my bed. Anyway, I kept flip flopping from thinking I was a pathetic failure for having that as my bed, to thinking it was fucking rock and roll (that was stretching it, and usually involved some combination of pot, neil young guitar solos and janis joplin wailings) and then I would feel ridiculously spoiled for scoffing over sleeping conditions better than probably 90% of the world. Nonetheless, I am pleased to have both a floor and a mattress.

Hung the fuck over. shoulda drank more water. or maybe less beer.
there is a really sore spot on my ribs that is small like someone poked me really really hard. i keep touching that spot, the way you play with a hangnail even though/because it hurts.

You should come to the protest, afterwards we're all gonna get hammered!
*some guy in a Montreal hostel actually said this to E and I. I can't really remember what the protest was about, and I doubt buddy ever really knew. I seem to remember him taking along a Canadian flag, and us sorta being like 'wha?'. We declined.
We also declined the (whispered) offer to go to a "very reputable, classy strip club" with this reeeeeaally creepy guy pushing 40. We were both 18 at the time [holy shit]. He said he had been offered a deal he just couldn't refuse, and was charitably offering to let us in on it. Its guys like that who come up with those email scams- "Greetings, I am Alfonse Amoussou, an established businessman from the Crozet Islands. I am requesting your help with transferring 500,000." blah blah. Also, he had red silk sheets. to use on the bunk beds in the communal sleeping quarters. Fuck, I wonder what he is doing right now?
looking back, that trip was a seminal event in my young adult life.

So after watching the new CBC series 'JPod' I decided I'd rather read the book on which it is based before watching anymore. I finally cracked open my unread copy and have barely put it down since. Line I read today that I really liked:
“Documents are thirty four percent more boring when presented in the courier font.”
For me, courier is singly redeemed by my favorite ever prof who used it in all his handouts. His age indicates that he uses it as a carry over from typewriter days. His classic stylings (he really confirmed old man chic for me) made it just so perfect.
Anyway, after reading that line, I saw this. Basically:
The typeface you use for an academic paper might just influence your mark. At the very least, Academics like serifs. My Vista word default is sans serif, I should do something about that!
Since I am already revealing my nerdiness for typography (sounds so much more legit than 'fonts'), I might as well bring up the fact that I like trying to match fonts to people. Maybe I should make it a formal project. hm. oh, ideas!


a tad literal for my tastes, to say the least


I was all crabby walking back from kensington shopping, remembered that I haven't had a drop of coffee yet today. So I'm all primed to go to the coffee shop at the bottom of my street, waiting for the light to change so I can get there. This homeless guy standing at the crosswalk asks me for change for food, I open up my wallet and root around, and alas I only have a few pennies. I offered him a bun- he didnt take it. Anyway, there was no way I was going to walk into the coffee shop and pay with a twenty while he looked on from across the street. So here I am, still cloudy and caffeine free, shamed into passing up the coffee shop.

"News" article headline I just saw: Familiar face tops worst-dressed list
Well no shit. Its not like Tammy Albertson, Customer Support Manager of the La-z-boy Omaha office, was ever in the running

Walking down the street, I thought I heard the talkative Chinese autistic guy from one of my classes walking behind me. Turns out it was this white 'thug' talking in an incredibly embarrassing (for everyone) mutation of Ebonics. Do I even need to mention that he was wear a matching baby blue sweat suit?
Next thing- maybe I am completely out of touch, but I heard a song today that went something like "baby I'm getting intoxicated on desire, and you're the designated driver". It sounded like Beyonce's voice, but I'm not sure. Anyway, if dude is the designated driver, doesn't that mean he doesn't have any desire for her? So is the song supposed to be about this girl crushing on a guy that isn't into her? It didn't seem like it. who is missing something, me or them?
Ever cried while eating? I did today! In public no less.It hit me pretty unexpectedly, and suddenly the last thing I wanted was a big wad of 1.50$ Vietnamese sub in my mouth. I had to choose between tears and food. I chose food. Anyway, it is a weird unpleasant sensation

hum along

I can't seem to shake this feeling of impending doom.
Otherwise the day is a pleasant one! 8 degrees, my goodness!
First day back to class (maybe that's doom related...). I Still have summer courses to take, but this is the last of the 'real' semesters. exciting, scary. More on that later, I'm sure.

Someday, for a while, I would like to be big in Japan

oh! I've written 100 posts! wow, weird
So I love the sprinkle brigade

So I am freshly back from Vic. I have a floor in my room now, so it no longer smells like mould/general grunges (it wasnt the 3 legged cats fault afterall). It does, however, smell like noxious chemicals- but only faintly. Considering the effects of the mould smell were more immediate (congestion, cough, who knows what else, and and general feeling of 'this is fucking nasty'), where the effects of the chemical smell are more long term (cancer, sterility etc etc)- all things that, as an under 20 30year old, I am invincible to- then all in all, I'd say the noxious chemical smell is a definite step up!

ps. I didnt have sex with a girl. the experimentation was not of a sexual nature

New Years was fun. Party at Heather and Byron's. Some more dancing.
I experimented, it turned out awesome. This girl and I just stroked each other half the time.
I accidentally gave some guy in the alley the rest of Fin's blunt. Fin (a native Ontarian) was not pleased. He claims that in BC, you don't just invite people into your smoking circle the way you do in Ontario. I claim that he is just cheap.


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