i would cuddle a stuffed cleggsy bear

At times [Nick] Clegg sounds like a once-respected stage actor who’s taken the Hollywood dollar and now finds himself sitting at a press junket, patiently telling a reporter that while, yes, on the face of it, his role as the Fartmonster in Guff Ditch III: Fartmonster’s Revenge may look like a cultural step down from his previous work with the Royal Shakespeare Company, if you look beyond all the scenes of topless women being dissolved by clouds of acrid methane, the Guff Ditch trilogy actually contains more intellectual sustenance than King Lear, and that all the critics who’ve seen the film and are loudly claiming otherwise are misguided, partisan naysayers hell- bent on cynically misleading the public – which is ethically wrong.

– Charlie Brooker, “All hail the human face of the coalition: Nick Clegg – sad-eyed defender of the new reality“, The Guardian, 10/25/2010

i am excited for my shiny new stickers

Within the last month, I’ve officially entered the homestretch onwards towards 30. Three years to go. So what, of course still makes me so excited I nearly pee myself? Why finding out that one of my favourite blogs/webcomics/cesspools of hilarity (The Oatmeal) sells stickers. STICKERS. This, my friends, is time-travel. I am back in 1990. Seven years old and thuper-duper exthited to get my thtickerth.

The Stickers hath arrived. They are glorious. My clipboard (the aged replacement for a sticker book in these days of post-pubescence) is now graced by the presence of a pink shiny sticker of a unicorn farting glitter. Nice.

turn autocorrect off

the sound of the trains comes thinly

hand in hand with rain

shivering into droplets against the smudged glass of the window

two handprints on the outside, small and light

vowels seem redundant

but esses less so

in these days of much

i have a tripleword score lined up ready to win

but sometimes i just make up words and no one would ever really know

but me

i would know

until i chose to forget

the floors creak more loudly than i remember

the words whistle in a whisper

dubyas are four points

i remember

you can’t go home again… and other facets of denial

Moving out of my childhood home was a gradual process. I’m a gradual process person. Not cold turkey; a “weaner”, if you will. When things happen suddenly, I forget Douglas Adams’s best advice…. (Read: I panic.)

I get stuck in an odd state of shock only calculable as a sick ratio beyond my mathematical skills that involves variables such as “deer,” “headlights,” “fans” and lots and lots of “shit.” There’s something within that state of shock which is the quintessential form of denial. Like Pure Extract of Denial, if you will. It’s this core belief that somehow, somewhere deep within this giant cesspool of bullshit, there is a safe place. There is still somewhere where you can go where you float freely in some kind of womb-like structure. But that doesn’t really exist, does it? But were we ever to let go of this deep-seeded belief, we’d surely go insane. We have no choice. We must believe. (I think I’m on to something here, regarding the foundation of religion and other myth-making, but that’s really beyond the scope of my blogging escapades at 2.45 on a Friday afternoon.)

But, as Wolfe said, you can’t go home again. Home… most easily described as that simple structure in which we spent our formative years. Even though my parents moved out of my childhood home about four years ago, for the first little while, it still seemed somehow alive in my mind. Like it was still there, tucked away waiting for me, and one day I would be going back. I’m not sure when my subconscious thought this prodigal return might take place; perhaps as an old woman ready to die, like some frickin’ salmon.

But then I saw it. My old house in a state of decrepitude as it was in the middle of being demolished. I walked through the skeleton of my home. The walls were gone, the yard was a shithole, but there were still the floors and the ceiling: the smudges of paint on the wooden slats of my bedroom ceiling when I effed up majorly trying to paint my room when I was twelve; the bloodstains on the kitchen floor from my sister’s cockup with the glass door; the plastic garbage bag rack stuck to the never-finished wall of the laundry room; the hook screwed into the living room ceiling from which nothing ever hung; and the hand prints we set in the concrete my dad poured when he built an extension to the house with his bare hands. The spine of the house led me down the hallway I’d tread a million times. Every little detail is locked away in my memory.

But now it’s gone and another monstrosity stands in its place.

This tour around the hollow remains of home affected me more than I realized at the time. Now, about two and half years later, I realize that why it affected me so much, why I still mourn for something that wasn’t in-and-of itself something I loved. (It was the memories, and the people I love.)

I realized the fantasy, the harsh blinkering denial. There is no safe place you can run to. There is no return to the womb. Life is lived without a safety net… as scary and depressing as that is.

You can’t go home again.

But maybe it’s better that way.

dear blogspot

Dear Blogspot,

You were like a lover. We kissed, we cuddled, we had good times. But I’m flaky and vain, and never satisfied. Thus, we’re through. I wish I could say it’s not you, it’s me, but that’s not true… or maybe it is. I just don’t know anymore.


The truth is, I’ve found someone else. Yes, he’s flashy and arrogant, but that’s kind of what I’m into right now. He’s a little easier to handle. Granted, he makes most of my decisions for me, but any autonomy you granted me always seemed like lip service, you know?

I know you’ve been trying. Really, I do. You’ve been dressing better. I noticed. You were afraid I was going to lose interest, I could tell.

I can’t help it, Blogspot, I feel like somebody when I’m with him. I know you did that for me once, but it was right after I left Livejournal, which was really just a rebound from Geocities, and we all know how that shook down.

I just don’t want my guilt over you to haunt me the same way, Blogspot. Don’t do anything drastic. Keep on trucking, Blogspot, doing what you do best: providing a space for emo sobs and pedantic rants. I’m sorry, Blogspot, that was mean. I know you do your best, and you were there for me for all of my emo sobs and pedantic rants. We had it good, but those times are over.

Just give me your faith, Blogspot, that it will all work out. I know WordPress and I will be happy together. I don’t know how long it will last, but I just can’t say no to those customizable fonts.

Love and kisses,


pink isn’t just ‘pink’ anymore

Out of guilt for missing a breast cancer fundraiser last night, I thought I would wander the internet a little this morning, but then I grew disturbed. Google ‘breast cancer funding’ then google ‘breast cancer merchandise.’ It’s a little outrageous the difference.

It kind of confirms my suspicions that this devastating disease which deserves our respect has been hijacked by a bunch of sick businessmen. I find it ridiculous that they are profiting off this pink merchandise. A small fraction of their markup actually ends up going towards breast cancer research, and the rest to the companies.

I do not mean at all to diminish anyone’s suffering or to disrespect anyone living with cancer or their friends and family, but please understand my meaning: it just seems wrong to me for a disease to be a brand.

Perhaps it’s one of those ‘the end justifies the means’ and that this is tolerable because at least some money is getting to breast cancer research, but it all just makes me feel a little uneasy. I’m interested in reading the latest statistics on different funding dollars for different types of cancer, but I just could find them anywhere on the internet. Perhaps I didn’t look hard enough.

I’m not entirely sure what else to say. I’m sure this seems offensive enough for now.


Update to last Saturday’s post:

Yesterday I saw pink toilet paper. PINK. TOILET. PAPER. If this isn’t a sign of the apocalypse, I don’t know what is. Companies profiting off the breast cancer “brand” is really starting to get to me. They make way more off those products than actually gets donated to breast cancer research, btw.


five am and all is well

I was up at five this morning. Intentionally, which is strange. I had a conversation yesterday which let me wander back down that awkward little garden path of memory to the time I came home from Europe, and, with no work for two weeks and jet lag, I was awake every morning at 5 am. I got so much writing done before the rest of the house even woke up.


So this morning, I woke up, wrote about 800 words, and here I sit. Not too shabby, considering I’m not even usually up by this time on a Saturday. Your head enters a weird place when its overtired. Most times you’re too tired to do anything, but in the morning you feel like you should be waking up, so it’s… bizarre. Perfect for being creative, if you can concentrate.

Perhaps I will get a lot more done before Canzine West this afternoon and the NPODW party tonight!