Dear "gentle"men at the library...

Go home. I don't care if you're commuters, this place is meant for the mute. I don't want to hear three phone calls about your trip to Holt Renfrew tomorrow and the size of your deep-v, because it probably won't look good when you wear it with your douchey sideways cap. And you won't be picking up any chicks with the amount of gas you pass. Rolling on the ground laughing at bodily functions is reserved for the toddlers on playgrounds, and crackheads in my backyard, but loudly, purposefully, at the library? Not my idea of a rootin', tootin' good time. 

"Settle down, boys," I say, and flash the international symbol for "shh." They drop the level down a few decibels, belch a few more times, and spend twenty minutes talking about fat chicks on Facebook.... and then another twenty about how they should get going. I turn to agree, but they are leaving. The pretty-boy in the Hollister shirt apologizes for his pal's rudeness, rather than saying sorry for his own like a man, and I lie, roll my eyes and say it's ok.

Finally, at 10 p.m., it's quiet. I reorganize my books, uncap a fresh highlighter, and get ready to get down to business. But then I hear that familiar rustling... and a soft "hey" from my left. It's pretty-boy, back in blue, and wanting to make ammends. "I'm so sorry, I really want to make it up to you. Can I take you to lunch?"

I look up, squander a snicker, stare deeply into his eyes... and say "no," and nothing else.

"Well, can I at least have your number?"

Sorry, I only date boys who are out of diapers. Go back to the 905.

signs of the apocalypse.

Inflation. Stock markets crashing. Cheaply outsourced labour.

None of the financial headlines have played a major role in my life of cheap thrills, until now―Dollarama, the everything-for-a-dollar-and-sometimes-less emporium, isn't living up to its great name.

According to the news, the store's infamously low prices will jump after sixteen years of standstill. For someone who feels so passionately about the establishment, and spends approximately half of her dollars at the 'rama, this news is absolutely detrimental. Where will I buy my shampoo? Juice boxes? Cases of spam?!

Dollar-and-twenty-five-cents-er,ama just doesn't have the same ring to it.

on procrastination.

sometimes, the dread is far more miserable than the deed itself.

and a warm welcome goes to...

guess who's joined the blogosphere??

the bitch is back.

lilo, hohan, red-headed slut (yes, like the shot), whatever name you assign to the bitch, she's out there.... and blogging on gay rights (and a mysterious "special someone"). Feel free to become commenter no. 3207... no, wait, 3212...

dear body...

... sorry for being so cruel to you. I promise to sleep more than six hours a night, consume no more than four alcoholic beverages for day, stop substituting cookie dough for meals, and try to come home before two on school nights.

At present, it's the best effort I can make.... I'm going to bed. Goodnight, world.

election selections.

Tonight, I'm staying in again with strep.

Common sense should denote me devoting time to write something intelligent, perhaps provide some insight into an intellectual matter. And there's one matter that matters a lot, but something I tend to avoid (especially for someone with U.S. citizenship).

I must admit, I'm typically a tad behind when it comes to the political race, but today, I've decided to up the ante, to broaden my horizons, to enter the critical, analytical blogosphere that is all to do with the U.S. election. 

I'd talk Palin, but I'm over the teenage-pregnancy hype, I'd speak of change, but Obama's got that covered... I'd talk McCain but I don't wanna bore anyone to sleep. That being said, there's only one last logical angle to cover...

the beautiful angles of Levi Johnston's chin. 

Happy voting!

oh dear god.

Froshies are trodding on my territory.

Scads of Abercrombie-clad clones are trampling all over my home stomping ground..

My backyard is backed-up with over-eager freshmen and all of the o-week, type-a's, busy pumping up newbie spirits and putting a damper on mine.

When I walk, I want to walk fast, mission-walk, through clear streets. I've got a lot of limb from the waist down and don't want to put it to waste. Call me a claustrophobe, or a country folk, but I just need some room to stretch out on my home street.

this is the end, my only friend.

It's the last day of summer.

Well, technically it's got three weeks to die off, but my landmark is typically the day before school begins.

So here we are, after months of wishing for summer, it's gone daddy gone. I spent the first half of yesterday in regret, and the second half wishing I had a better tan... but last night I looked through forgotten photos from the four months past. Sasquatch to Seattle, Niagara to New York, B.C. to BluesFest on the beach. I read books I've always wanted to, and some that I needed... I started listening to hip-hop. Some summer it was, and it's not that I'm ever reallyready to go back, but at least I can accept the fact.

So, today I'm spending the day basking in the last of the smoking rays, baking my skin 'till it's bronze, finger painting  and playing at the ex, and dancing 'till it's way past bedtime. I'll come home and sloppily lay out my fresh notebooks, new pens, and my never-been-used schoolbag, and cat-nap 'till class... so what if I show up a little bleary-eyed. Bring it on, fall.

The following is a small memoir to such a sweet summer.