zzzzzzzz.....

I've peaked at twenty-one.

In the olden days, or rather, four mere years ago, I would spend three or four days on end playing volleyball games all day long, surviving on little sleep and staving off sickness with a healthy, balanced diet of mini eggs and fruit leather. Today, it's eleven-thirty, I've eaten my mix of complex and simple carbs, proper protein and fats ratios. I've exercised for four months leading up to this day. Today, I've played two games, and I'm tired, weary, and whiny, and I've bailed out on night-time hangouts for a second night in the row. Sad as it is, I don't have enough left in me to give this blog entry some dignity by drawing it out, instead, I'm choosing to drift off, securing the double digits of sleep I need for sustenance.

I hope it's not downhill from here.

Immeubles

Sometimes, staying in one city too long feels like house arrest. The bigger the city, it seems, the longer you last. But when you're surrounded by everything the same, the same now as it was so many years ago, the expiry date draws nigh. It's like itching powder sifted down my shirt, upping the dose every day, making me move, or at least want to. The irony is, the ones who pour the powder are the same who are pulling back, saying no, no, no.

Summer, bloody summer

My summer was all laid out.

Four months in Asia. Fly into Singapore, head North 'till I'd eaten every piece of Pad Thai and Pho on the continent. Hike, skydive, thrill-seek, adventure. Of course, ambition, when planned in pairs, sometimes falls through. I counted up my losses, accepted defeat, and made a compromise.

I set myself out, instead, to head home to lounge with mom and pop, eat Chef Frere's exquisite food, educate my little sister on getting past puberty (now that I think I'm finally over it myself), and, of course, keep a little extra coin in my pocket. I was unreasonably enthusiastic to visit the prosaic prairies, to relax, and sleep in my high school hideout. And then, come July, to rent a flat in Prague, and stroll along the promenade for a month or two. Sleeping in, and drinking Czechvar until I slept again. And I wasn't ever planning to go it alone.

But now, it seems, I am―right here.

Since Sunday, I've hastefully been arranging interviews―of the summer job sort, people pointing the mic at me instead of the school year's opposite―in hopes of earning checks to cover my coffee for next school year, instead of a plane ticket to anywhere the hell outta here. I've stopped trying to sell off my room to some stranger. My little sister will stay stuck to fend for herself at the dangerous age of thirteen. No one will be left to scarf Mike's leftovers at ungodly hours. For me, it's more concrete, more city, more same ol', just with the addition of some occasional sunshine. Those had better be some damn happy rays or I'll be carrying S.A.D. with me all through this sorry summer.

mamakasss

is wishing all of her blogs were just 140 characters, so she could blog more.

Oh-bama (the obligatory inaugural post)

Today was a good day―and that doesn't just mean I got to eat free samosas.

I walked into class today with plans to drivel at the feet of my Critical Issues prof, begging him to end class early on account of a historical event which all journalists should be required to witness. To my delight, the prof had the same plan.

So I and a herd of journalists-to-be headed over to the Student Centre where we were greeted with pins, refreshements and big, big screens. The president-elect's face was plastered around the room, always portrayed staring into the sky as if god was personally dictating his each and every action. There was the clichéd thick air of excitement in the room―but that may have been because volunteers were laying out trays and trays of wings and deep-fried plantains on a nearby table. 

When Obama first walked onto the widescreen, the students paid their collective respects through whooping and cheering, myself included. Aretha Franklin came in and sang her song, but no one really heard anything due to her deafeningly loud headwear. No, seriously, did she pick that off the top of the last year's Macy's Christmas Tree? That girl's got balls.

Wardrobe cuts aside, while Obama's (somewhat shaky) inauguration made me happy and hopeful, full of glee and giddyness, it sparked another distinct emotion.  

Obama's inauguration and subsequent speech today turned me emerald with envy. Why? Because Canucks like me have to live vicariously through our big brother, the U.S. (Although I'm half-American, I can't only consider myself "one of them" when they do something good*. I've lived in Canada since I was born and can't justify calling myself anything else―yet.) And if any of you are the youngest child, or simply have the over-achieving older sib with a barrage of accomplishments you can never live up to, you know that it plain and simple sucks. We have a leader whose economic policy disagrees with that of every other forward-thinking nation in the world, who prorogues parliament (which I see as a hold on anything democratic), and possesses a head-tilt-and-smile routine that only a child molester in-the-making could have (politically incorrect, yes, but who ever said I couldn't be?). The one time in recent memory where Canadian politics got interesting, the good guys ruined it with a cell-phone quality piece of youtube crap which had more people focused on the leader's library and less-than-desirable accent. I'm not saying I want George W. to pack his parka and move north to stir up some shit and maple syrup in Ottawa, but can't we have some change to believe in too? We're far happier to cheer for an American man that we are any Canadian leader―'cause well, our head honchos just don't change much at all. No one's making a killing selling iconic Harper pins and t-shirts.

In the same year that whites, blacks, potentially-terrorist Muslims and everything in between chanted, "Yes, we can," under Obama's charismatic leadership, more Canadians shuttered their doors and stayed inside than taking a few steps out to vote in some national election. We ended up with a minority Conservative government. Ho-hum. 

Do people even care enough about Canadian government to make a noteworthy response if that kind of a powerful leader were to step up to the podium? 

If I were a politician, I'd do something about it, seriously.

But since I'm a bored, aspiring Canadian journalist, maybe it's high time I make like a bird and migrate south, 'cause in Candian politics, well―maybe we can't. 

*That is, unless Jeopardy closes admission to Canadians. If so, I will toss my Canadian passport and wave hello to the stripes and stars in a second.

overheard at the polls...

"Sorry, you need something to prove your address before you can vote."

"Uh, nobody said that..."

"Well, then we can't let you vote today, sorry miss."

Rifling through wallet "Library card? No. Letter from a curator? No. Fishing license? Hell no!"

"Do you live close?"

"Um, kinda, but ... don't ... have... time.. can you please... just..."

The pollsters mumble amongst themselves. "Okay, miss, whats your address?"

I read my address off the card I just handed her (duh!).

"Well miss, let's, er, just say that your provided us with proper I.D. Here's your ballot."

Ah, the convenience of corruption.... Canadian politics, whatta joke. 

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.

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.

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.

in the meantime...

from what I hear, the designer lines at h&m were supposed to be... er, fashionable.

I don't have the internship to prove it, but I can still call out bad clothes when I see 'em. Please, get out of my cheap Swedish emporium...

maybe I should get a mac

I just wrote the most deep, thought-provoking blog of my life.

.... and then Safari crashed.

Alls I can say, is that it involved this photo, and was brilliant (I'm sure). Alas, I need to get back to life in the real world before I can return to the world wide web... in the meantime, read this.. and this.

Will write later.

xoxo

vote yang.

Since when has cuteness factor been first priority in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics?! 

The Ancient Greeks, the originals, played naked. Dicks flopping around during discus throws aren't exactly "cutesy".

Bad teeth and children go together like milk & cookies (and hopefully the former is not a result of the latter). If you don't think these kids are cute, then go dig up your grade one class photo.

are YOU ready?

It all started out with pink.

The rebellious, fashionistos at high school, rockin' the pink tee (likely to be paired with a fake-vintage-logo trucker hat, a la Ashton Kutcher). Guys were finally comfortable with their sexuality, and not afraid to step out in a nice rose shade.

A few years ago, American Apparel extended the classic v-neck shape to the men's department. At first, it was a v, now it's a vee... the deep v. I saw a vee so deep last week (at Sneaky Dee's, mind you) that I was worried the wearer's chest hair was soon to transform into treasure trail. And apparently it won't be a cut above for the coming season―men's vee's are here to stay. Chest hair, beware.

T-shirts are one thing. A basic shape shared by both sexes for years, a standard cut, a standard material. You can't really go wrong with Fruit of the Loom. But for every fall-back staple in fashion, there's an equal and opposite unfortunate piece, that gives me an utterly unimpressed reaction.

Men in skirts. What happened to men at work? It's like Boyz II Girls meets Backstreet Babes. What's next, men in floral, floaty dresses? Call me a traditionalist, but if a 'man' ever shows up on a date wearing an outfit more effeminate than I, I'll bid my farewell and boot it to the nearest Amish community... even if I'm running in heels.

drug potion no. 9

For the last few weeks, I've felt the uninhibited urge to do something wild, crazy, something entirely out-of-character. I'd been dying for some new dye under my skin, but couldn't decide on a design. I wanted a haircut, but was wary of the length, not to mention the cost of a good crop. I'm not badass enough to pierce anything besides my ears, and any other body modification was essentially out of the question. So how's a good girl to satisfy her reckless cravings?

The answer can be found in a simple count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...9 camel no. 9's.

This weekend, I left my athlete lungs to succumb to the beauty of the pink box, the rarity of the American-breed, the long, narrow sick-on-a-stick between my pointer and middle finger. I said 'when in Rome' (which, in this weekend's case, was actually New York City―and there will be more on that later), and made a pact with myself to polish the pretty pack before Tuesday dawned. Saturday night came, and I socially smoked my way through my share of a 26 of Seagram's, a couple of Mexican beers, and some classy champagne. My buzz wasn't killed thanks to the booze, but I can't say I craved the 'tine. I smoked once the next day and struggled through half a butt or two. Nine cigarettes in a weekend―not bad for a rookie, but for once, I feel accomplished for not meeting my personal goals (mom would be proud).

My preferred summer treat on a stick? Popsicles. There is no substitute. Smoking still sucks (no pun intended), even if all the pretty people stick to it.

Oh yeah, and if anyone wants to bum a smoke, let me know. I've still got the rest of the pack back in Canada.

Whine-ery

Today, I couldn't sleep past 10.

I leaped out of bed, laced up my runners, got on my (dad's) bike. I went uphill, then downhill for an hour, and came back inside only to go back outside, out on the water. We went tubing to tunes, and as Mick Jagger crooned, "am I rough enough?"... I slid off the inner tube in sync with his "ooh," and with the aid of my lifejacket, popped my now-throbbing head above water. I came back inside again, and left within ten minutes, with dripping-wet hair only to drive, to sip and sample wine at one of the World's Top 5 Vineyards (at least according to Travel & Leisure), which in reality, made my head pound a little worse. Mission Hill Winery offered "gorgeous, breath-taking views" of the Okanagan Lake, and rows and rows of grape-vines made me want to lay down and nap. Which I, and my little sister did. We lied on the grass and stared at the sky. Got up and ate and ate again, playing dumb to the fact that we'd have to wear our barely-there bathing suits, baring our near-bulging bellies in a few hours. We shopped and strolled the town. We'd scarcely stopped all day in the plus-35, dry heat. And when we came back to our beach home, I caught myself complaining to my dad, like I have (too) many a time.

"I'm bored," I whined, slouching, sinking into the corner of the elevator.
"But you haven't stopped all day," he says, rolling his eyes.
"I know, but...."and I gave up on my defense. All around me is green, lush, summery, just as I've been yearning for... but where is the flashing, scuzzy "Zanzibar" sign. No angry, road-raged, sun-scorched drivers. No 10-dollar pitchers of headless beer. No homeless men to dance with on the streets at night(!).

Parents.... they just don't understand.

But my dog ate it!

After spending someone else's vacation spending your dollars and theirs, you come to wonder where all the Washingtons went. You look back on a few blurry pictures, but your memory of the night is still fuzzier than the photograph. A few concert stubs, the words fading from the dampness of the back pocket, created by your crowd neighbour's sweaty... whatever. A train ticket, a plane ticket, and a TTC transfer, paid for only by the quarters in change from overpriced drinks. 

And suddenly, it dawns. Money's great, money makes the work go 'round. Money is quite possibly the only material possession in the world that can make every person in the world giddy. Just listen to the Lotto 649 testimonials. But the funny thing about money, honey, is that it ain't worth nothin' till you spend it.

And that's just what we did.

You might be wondering where I've been the last month (or, more likely, you haven't noticed at all), well, I've spent the last two fortnights digging deep into my pockets, enjoying every pretty penny I pull out. Sadly, now I look kinda like the guy off Monopoly who pulls the lining from his back pockets out of the poor broke ass of his jeans, and puffs out the floppy bottom lip in desperation. Patios, pitchers, road trips, all the summer staples of a cockaigne (word of the day, look it up kids) seem perfect, but the pocket can't take it. My wallet's burnt a black hole, and the sun's not coming to wash away my pain.

So what can a poor girl do? D-uh. Invent a thrifty, spend-free guide to summer in the city! Heed my wise advice and you'll be thankful once October rolls around and your broke ass can't even pay for a ten-dollar Halloween costume.

*feel free to leave further, more conniving ideas in the comments box

Make friends with someone who does good deeds to benefit all of his friends.

Couples and couple of friends bike rides. You can't hold hands but you can bike side-by-side, which is way cuter anyway.

House parties, house parties, house parties. I can't stress this one enough. You will spend money at the bar, and at Big Slice. It's inevitable. Avoid the temptation by mingling with drunken pals old and new, preferably the generous kind who'll spot you a drink―or two―each. And the best part is, you'll actually get to talk to your friends without straining and engaging in a little ear-to-mouth-shout-style convo when you're standing next to the amp. Which is highly beneficial, especially when you're a straight guy trying to talk to another straight guy. Or worse, when someone's got a wild (turkey) case of bourbon-breath.

Hang out at book shops and/or record shops and read and/or listen as you please. No one's gonna stop ya―you're just  learning about your future "purchases". And what wise worker would want to prevent your highly-educated purchase? 

Look for free festivals. Luminato, far past. NXNE, just  missed it. Pride Week's just begun. And even if you don't consider yourself part of the rainbow, evyerone's gonna be drunk, drugged, and crazy. Beats the $16 movies. Speaking of beats.... Beats, Breaks, and Culture―Ladytron, Thunderheist, Crystal Castles... and free haircuts. The madness! And yo, if you like dem Marley boys, you will already know you must be here for Caribana―the ultimate BYOW summer carnival.

And if  the impossible happens, you've exhausted all your options and all of the above fails: walk, nay, run to the nearest park for some quality people-watching. Allen Gardens Crack Park, Trinity-Bellwoods, Ashbridges, the world's your film noir. The only equipment? X-ray eyes and an inquisitive mind. And if you're really curious (like my roommate), bring your pa's binoculars. A little voyeurism never hurt anyone.

My "social profile".

Sigh. I thought I was wised up to facebook and all its wicked ways.

Nope, they always find a way in.

Today, I received an e-mail with the subject heading: "Kasandra, These are your Most Powerful Peers."

Most powerful?! How could I turn down the offer to see a plain, black-and-white list of my most powerful 'friends'?

Well, duh, I opened it. Here's a little mail-snooping for you. Names have been substituted...

Most powerful and trusted friends:

1. loveable, intelligent drama boy from alberta, 59 points (status: player)
2. funky toronto dj, 45 points (status: player)
3. loveable, intelligent drama boy from alberta, 38 points (status: somebody)

4. uh, did we go to summer camp together?, 38 points (status: somebody)
5. loveable christian high-school girl, 38 points (status: somebody)
6. loveable, intelligent drama geek from alberta, 36 points (status: somebody)
7.  stout church boy from alberta, 35 points (status: somebody)
8. 'loveable' church girl future homemaker from alberta, 34 points (status: somebody)
9.  loveable, intelligent drama geek from alberta, 34 points (status: somebody)

10. nice smile, who are you again?, 33 points (status: somebody)

You are at position #85

85?! $%&% it can't be. I'm not even a somebody, at this rate, I don't even think I make the rank of a nobody! 

Apparently to become powerful, I need to keep my mouth shut, smile bigger, have less opinions, go to church, and take more drama classes.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!

*warning: ACTUAL, unadulterated written content follows

TIP: Political! power is a pyramid of how many people trust the people that trust you. And the people that trust them - it goes pretty far. This number also means that if you wanted to send a message or thought to the whole world, these are the people who would accept your message as trustworthy, because they have faith in people who have faith in you. Think of it as your influence and reach.

since when does Stephen Covey write the self-help script for Facebook? Last time I checked he stuck to middle-aged, middle-class homemakers with "issues." 

Look Facebook, I love you, you know that. You tell me who's cool and who's not (helllooooo, mini-feed!), but now you're telling me how to make it big in life? 

I'm thinking of the influence and reach in my life and I'm quite frankly disappointed by the overwhelming presence of  you in it.

I guess when an application's named "Compare People" (no, not products, not companies.... PEOPLE—your adorable, virginal, little sister versus my creepy, early 30s, balding boss—it must be morally wrong.) Status is measured in points gained from people's votes.

So, REALLY, when you say someone has "power", it means they win the all-too-popular popularity contest.

And when you're not just "somebody" anymore, you're a true playa.

Guess that makes me a playa....hata.

Personal Ventilation System.

*Disclaimer: The following are actual quotes from actual journalists from an actual website. Proceed with caution.

Angry Journalist #3708:

I’m angry that I can’t use a three-foot apostrophe to beat seven shades fo shit out of the next wanker, who uses the professional moniker of journalist, who fails to understand singular and plural, etc…

I feel beating them with a ‘grammar’ truncheons may both teach them via negative reinforcement methods and act some for of therapy for me… and it would be fun.

That is all. Now I must go relieve myself in the editor’s coffee cup.

Angry Journalist #3444:

i dont get paid enough to pay rent

Angry Journalist #3326:

Journalism degrees are toilet paper (I have one).

Angry Journalist #KASS:

j-school ruined my life, two years later I don't know what to do and I'm scared to live in poverty. It's 3 a.m. and I'm still paying to do homework.
The weather welcomes outside and the night is nigh but the bright lights of my laptop are all of the nightlife I get to see tonight.
My scanner and printer are on the fritz that means extra work extra time extra money.
Please, j-skool, don't make me move to Regent Park...