Monday, October 31, 2011

Troll! In the dungeon!

Happy Halloween!

I'd say Halloween is my favourite holiday, unless I decide that Halloween and Christmas are tied or that Christmas was exceptionally successful in which case Halloween would fall second.  (you may or may not be familiar with my thoughts about Christmas, but I won't divulge into it [yet; it's not even November yet..] and seem like a Scrooge, it's too early) I've always been over-enthusiastic about choosing my costume for the year, usually beginning to think about it (and, if I'm particularly crazy, assemble it) during the summer.  I usually am stuck with the repeating problem of what to be, because here's my philosophy: because I love Halloween so much, it seems a waste to me to be something like "police man" or "cowboy" because costumes like that are so generic.  Given that I'm not overly good at thinking up clever costumes, I then stick to characters, because characters are memorable.  Even still, it's difficult.

This year, my costume was essentially chosen for me.  I was part of a big collective Grey's Anatomy costume spearheaded by the craziest Grey's fans I know, two of my friends, who also happened to be hosting their annual Halloween party along with their roommates at their house.  Given that I'm tall, dark (I guess..), and not just handsome but sexy (ha!), I was given the task of becoming Dr. Derek Shepherd, douchebag husband and neurosurgeon extraordinaire - McDreamy himself.  In preparation, recall, I watched the entire series of Grey's over the summer and experienced the roller coaster every Grey's fan I'm sure has experience only on super fast forward - that roller coaster being massive obsession to gradual disappointment (the Grey's obsessed I know have not yet reached that.  They will always be massively obsessed) to dear God, just cancel the show so that I no longer must be obligated to watch every week, and yes I do feel that way sometimes because I can't just give up on those characters now.  I digress.  I purchased my navy blue scrubs months ago - I am, after all, an attending surgeon, so I get the navy scrubs - and dusted off my lab coat from the days when I was a failure of a science student.  I must say, these scrubs are some of the most comfortable clothes I own.  I am wearing them now.  It saddens me that Halloween is on a Monday because the holiday isn't over but the festivities already are; regardless I remain in my scrubs and lab coat with my badge (the greatest addition to the costume by far courtesy of my friend) as I finish readings for the upcoming week - we obviously don't get kids living in a residence complex.

100% authentic and pure genius.  Gave me that extra umph to fully embody McDreamy, and that I did.
My Halloween consisted of attending the aforementioned Halloween party.  I traveled there on Friday and was delighted to know the bar ten minutes away from the house was having a Halloween costumed event in addition to its weekly country night.  I made it to the bar.  I enjoyed the bar.  I was kicked out of the bar not even an hour after arriving due to reasons you can conclude come with drinking I think it was nine beers in succession before leaving for the bar.  I then proceeded to die.

Saturday was the worst day of my life.  I woke up around 7am - I can never sleep in when I've been drinking - to the disgusting misfortunes of the night before.  (I won't say, but I was still wearing my scrubs and we proceeded to wash them in the afternoon) Sitting upright was absolutely impossible so I remained curled in a ball on the couch until about 2pm when we all decided to visit the greatest and cheapest breakfast place known to man.  I spent my deadly headache watching movie after movie, first Baby Mama then Bridesmaids, then once returning from brunch (I guess it was) moved onto Mulan and Aladdin.  By then only the headache remained, and it was bearable.  A Zola was purchased to make my costume more authentic (Derek and Meredith have attempted to adopt a baby from Africa named Zola) and in effort to gloss over the absolutely despicable actions that followed I will only provide that Zellers did not sell black baby dolls so alternative methods were employed.  To stay true to the characters my Halloween wife and I decided to stash Zola away somewhere in the house during the party, proclaiming "Where did Meredith stash Zola?" (Meredith in the show stole Zola on the day she discovered they weren't getting her and hid her away in the hospital), and Zola spent the night in a washing machine, an oven, and a cupboard.  My partying motivation was at a minimum due to the night before tainting the taste of beer, so I casually drank over the entire night (which lasted until freaking 4:30am due to a certain drunk person's entertainment) without actually getting drunk off of my ass like the Friday night bar excursion, but the party was still quite fun.  The group donning the scrubs was fantastic when completely assembled, and I'm anxiously awaiting the number of pictures we took as a group as well as as characters and "couples."

As with any holiday, I'm always a little bit upset when things wind down.  I'll conclude my Halloween night by finishing a book that needs to be read for class on Thursday, and to evoke the spirit one last time, I'll watch Rocky Horror Picture Show in my scrubs, of course.  I'll miss the Halloween decorations I see in stores or even around campus, but I know come morning, the obnoxious amount of Christmas will begin to suffocate me since I notice the Christmas season always starts immediately.  Here's hoping for a good Christmas this year! - I'm thinking it will be.  But for now: boo.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

The one that got away

(Am I basing the concept to this blog post after Katy Perry's newest single?  Unfortunately.  However I do like the song despite my feelings about her, but that's beside the point)

A few weeks ago when listening The One That Got Away by Katy Perry a friend of mine brought up the potentially loaded question, "Aren't you ever scared about that?  Letting the one get away?"  (*paraphrase.  In fact I don't even know if that's remotely close to what she said, but point is, the theme of the song was called into question: the whole "what if?" concept) I have no direct answer to the question; with respect to the fear of letting "the one" get away from me, I've never experienced that since I've never legitimately dated someone yet - therefore I have yet to lose someone / a potential "the one" candidate.  Beyond a relationship standpoint, however, the general theme of the song can be considered (as previously mentioned) as "what would my life be like if x didn't happen?"  If I were in a particularly science fiction-y kind of mood I'd probably morph this into a post about alternate timelines - and, essentially, that could be where this is headed - but naturally I've been letting the idea resonate in my mind as I sit at my laptop in the comfort of my home while a rerun of Saturday Night Live is playing on the television.

Like I said - I've never been in a position to let someone get away.  But what if - what if, say, I didn't audition for the school musical in grade eleven?  What if I moved to Phoenix when I was eight?  What if I decided that Lady Gaga was too weird and decided to switch the radio station every time Just Dance came on?  (that one is a joke) The thought of how different my life would be is intriguing - therefore, let's consider it together, shall we?

(I think I might take a chronological approach to this.  I'm aiming to pick out a handful of what I consider to be the most pivotal moments in my life thus far - here's hoping they actually do hold up as significant)

When I was in grade two, my dad was offered a vice president position at his old company.  The catch, though: he was to relocate to Phoenix, Arizona.  So then: what if I moved to Phoenix?  My life would be vastly different; in fact, I would wager that I would be nowhere near the person I am today since I consider the people I've known in my life as having been influential in how I shaped myself.  Perhaps this blog would still exist if I was American (that thought makes me shudder), but I wouldn't know any of the friends I know and love now which is the most disturbing thought to me; I wouldn't have been privileged with a family close enough to see a few times a month; perhaps most importantly, I would've had to wait another two years to actually become legal to drink.  The horror.  In the end we didn't move because my dad was, at the time, considering another job offer (at the company he now works for now), as well as my parents deciding that it would be best for me and my sister to remain where we were accustomed to.  I recall putting up a massive fight to the prospect of moving to the States, and if memory serves correctly, I tried sabotaging meetings with realtors.

What if I was more concerned with how I presented myself in elementary school?  This seems extremely superficial and shallow at first value, and I know it; however - and I'm not meaning to be overdramatic or self-loathing - I wasn't exactly the most well liked person in elementary school, or even during high school.  (the bigger size of my high school lessened that concern because it wasn't a forced environment with the same fifty people day in and day out) I made a lot of unnecessary "enemies" because, as I look back now, I realize I exhibited some fairly negative traits.  I was so competitive for my marks that I know I came across as the teacher's pet; I was unnecessarily hateful towards some people because it's what others told me to do; I instigated things and I was honestly a bit obnoxious.  This doesn't bug me that much.  The past is the past, and all I care about is that I came out of those years with the best friends in the world, and I wouldn't trade it.

What if I didn't try out for Jesus Christ Superstar, my high school's musical, when I was in grade eleven?  This seems a bit insignificant, too, but the school musical was probably one of the greatest times in my life.  I used to be interested in acting in school plays in elementary school.  By the time I got to high school, my confidence was quickly diminished - it's humbling to become one of two thousand students, so your overall presence quickly shrinks.  Naturally, when auditions were announced for Jesus Christ Superstar, I wrote it off without thinking twice.  I would consider myself to be a pretty good actor, but by god, I can't sing worth my life, so even if I was still interested in acting in front of people, I would've passed it off knowing that the entire musical is, well, musical numbers, and there is absolutely no dialogue.  Regardless, I signed up for an audition time just to shut my friends up - my group of friends are fairly "artistic" as I know two dancers and a few are rather good singers - but it seemed that my commitment wasn't easily wiggled out of and I still had to audition.  I was so uninterested that I read parts of my monologue off of cue cards and when it came to singing I sang only a single verse from a[n unidentified song from an unidentified musical], despite being asked to prepare two songs.  And yet, I was cast as an evil priest - not to be egotistical, but one of the directors was my drama teacher and he liked me a lot.  As I know now, iff I hadn't auditioned, my life wouldn't be the same: it was literally the time of my life.  Rehearsals became an absolute joy due to meeting a whole lot of fantastic people whom I wouldn't have otherwise met.  My memories of the weekend rehearsals running around the halls or complaining about [what have you] with my fellow priests are endless.  I still look back at pictures from the play and rehearsals and said fond memories flood back to me, and I repeat, I wouldn't have turned out the same without the most amazing experience of my life.

When it came down to choosing my university, I was pretty much given the one and only option of science by my parents because at the time being an English major was out of the question.  I therefore based my choice completely on which schools offered the best forensic science programs (a science I deemed doable, but we know how that turned out) - and, as a result, I ended up applying to UTM because of their reputable program.  So then: what if I never went to UTM?  I firmly say that if I was applying to schools for their English programs, UTM would never have been an option: I would've applied for the downtown campus, for one, and I would've put heavy consideration on the reputation of English programs in the province.  Despite switching majors, my school still provided for me: I met some great people, and much like everything I've already talked about, I wouldn't be the same without knowing them; it's since been brought to my attention that UofT's English program is the seventh best in the world, so that turned out well, too.  I enjoy my program, the classes I'm taking, the people I get to see.  It's tough to think of, but (similar to everything already mentioned) if I didn't go to UTM, I wouldn't have known any different: I would've been taking equally interesting English courses elsewhere and I would've met some okay people.  Needless to say I'm far from disappointed by my selection; forensic science didn't quite work out, but UTM still did.

This serves as only a selection of the most influential moments of my life: I picked the ones that stuck out to me upon first consideration and I'd say they're all vastly significant.  Perhaps the most disturbing thing to consider is the concept of not knowing any better - what I mean by that is, if my life played out differently in each of these instances, I wouldn't have lived as "deprived" of the "goodness" that came out of them because I wouldn't have been alert to the goodness at all.  If I moved to Phoenix, I wouldn't have grown up with the four girls I call my four extra sisters; if I didn't try out for the musical, I would've missed the opportunity to meet so many new people and create so many more memories, but I wouldn't have been attentive to the possibility of said memories; if I didn't choose UTM as my university, I'd be taking just as interesting English courses elsewhere (preferably not York) spending time with other people for whom it would be impossible to gauge as better or worse than the people I know now - it's just impossible because I haven't lived all possibilities.  Honestly, though, I will never feel the need to know what things could have been: I'm entirely happy with where I am now.  Here's hoping I don't launch into such deep thought every time I hear Katy Perry's song though.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Operation Tweet Me Back

I have spoken ad nauseam about the show American Horror Story as of late, and I once again really implore you to watch it because I think it's a damn good show and I promise you'll be immediately hooked - I was.  I never intended to love it as much as I do, but I honestly find myself thinking about it at all times because it's so damn creepy and so messed up and open ended that to stop watching it would be a crime.  I've been developing theories about what I've been witnessing but with every episode additional curveballs are thrown so I'm really at a loss and am entirely good with the thrill of the ride; but I digress. (WATCH IT)

One of my favourite characters is Moira, the housekeeper, who [spoiler alert] is dead.  (it's not that big of a spoiler - it's revealed that she is in the very first episode, so I'm not giving much away; in fact it's rapidly becoming my theory that at least half of the characters are dead, but that's another story..) Moira is hired by the new owners of the house, the Harmons, after explaining that she's been the housekeeper of the house for years.  She isn't malevolent or mischievous - that is, except to Ben (the father of the family).  To everyone else, Moira is an elderly woman with one blind eye; to Ben, she's.. ahem, this.

She's aggressively forced herself on Ben (a past cheater) throughout the first three episodes, as he always finds her unbuttoning her blouse or bent over scrubbing the floors in the sluttiest way possible or - kids, cover your ears - touching herself while sprawled over a couch.  The disturbing thing of the matter is that she's actually an elderly woman, so when we see her touching herself through Ben's point of view, it's in reality that old lady touching herself.  I'm to the point where I've treated them as separate characters - in fact, another character in the show (who knows about Moira's past, and a lot more - I won't spoil that) has referred to her as "you two" - so whenever Young Moira's onscreen I've distanced the chilling thoughts of the older woman.

The (younger version of the) character is sultry.  Needless to say I'm in love with her, and if I were Ben, I'd have cheated on my wife twenty thousand times more.  She's played by an actress by the name of Alexandra Breckenridge who's popped up in various television shows including most recently (and to me, most recognizably) True Blood, where she played Bill's spy on the witches coven.  She then had a pretty raunchy sex scene so it's not bizarre to see her again in one of my favourite shows playing a siren.  Well, anyways, like I said, I've been completely seduced by her.

(I will reiterate that I fancy her version of the character.  I'm sure Old Moira is a lovely woman but she's not my type and I sure as hell would not want her hanging out cleaning in her knickers)

And so we finally arrive at the point: now that I'm on Twitter (@m_spad, do it up), I'm following Ms Breckenridge, and it's my mission to be tweeted back by her because that would literally make my day, and actually, the rest of my life.  It isn't unrealistic; she doesn't have millions of followers like, say, Lady Gaga, because I know it'd be fruitless attempting to be the one out of fourteen million that Gaga would ever choose to respond to.  I'm sure this entire post makes it seem like I'm a deranged stalker sort, but I'm merely keeping my fingers crossed that she'll tweet me, because like I said that would seriously send me over the moon.  To reinforce the fact that I am not deranged: even though I've made it a "mission," I'm not going out of my way to be obsessive.  I'll merely tweet her once and a while and by publicizing it I'm sharing what is bound to be a somewhat humourous journey with you, the reader.  It's my nature: humour for humour's sake, and naturally I make things dramatic.

Anyways. We'll see how it goes.  This'll give me some sort of hope, and I maintain that the moment it happens (if ever) I might die on the spot.  And then my ghost will return to this earth a la 90% of the characters on American Horror Story (I swear, 90% of the characters are ghosts.  At least) and blog about my bliss.

Note: this has been referred to me as "that creeper stalker post" (you know who you are).  I can defend myself all I want but yes.. yes it does seem that way.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Another post in avoidance of the same essay

In a general disclaimer, yes, what I usually write about is generally more cohesive than this, and yes, I do write on more diverse subject matters rather than essentially writing two posts that will (probably) end up looking identical.

I am still shockingly unmotivated to do any work whatsoever.  Today was a bit of a write-off considering I was out drinking last night; I tend to allow myself to be a vegetable the day after regardless of hangover state.  (I'm finding I'm becoming impervious to hangovers.  So hangovers can suck it) That very same essay that I had hoped to finish over the weekend still hangs over my shoulders, but I did manage to write five (albeit unpolished) pages yesterday, so I guess that does account for progress.  I'm left with penning a conclusion which are always the worst as well as editing the entire draft as a whole, and while it isn't the greatest undertaking in the world, I've always been one to hate leaving things to the last minute when I have the agency and means to totally finish it at any time.  And so that's me today: instead of taking two or three or four focused hours to knock out a more finalized copy, I instead spent my day searching tirelessly for last night's Saturday Night Live episode before becoming furious that doesn't let Canadians view their videos, playing two (maybe three..) hours of the Sims 3, watching Scary Movie and laughing at 1. the incredible similarity to Scream (I know it's a direct spoof but I'm referring to even shot compositions) which I now pick up on since Scream is one of my favourite movies and 2. all of the jokes considering I first watched it as a stupider child version of myself, finally discovering Saturday Night Live and weeping in disappointment at how unfunny the show was (however Kristen Wiig can do no wrong), cooking, returning to another two (three..) hours of the Sims 3, and finally getting exponentially frustrated at a jigsaw puzzle because as far as I'm concerned jigsaw puzzles are Satan.  How's that for a sentence.  I also needed to study for a test I have in the morning at 11, but that studying consisted of me looking at my notes for maybe fifteen minutes as I deemed that sufficient.  It usually is, and I usually still get high marks, but I can't shake the guilt monster hanging over my head nagging me to study more.  Not that said monster has a chance to speak: in my one moment of actually doing nothing (the real nothing not the Sims Scary Movie lying in bed eating nothing) I've been beckoned to rewatch the second episode of American Horror Story which I really cannot say no to since I'm actually obsessed with it.  The writing shall resume in an hour.  (not that that will affect you.. a draft is a draft.  Never mind me)

Aaaand the show is still as messed up as ever.

Party hard

The past week had a good amount of birthday shenanigans as three of my friends had birthdays - two were celebrated last weekend as previously outlined.  So again another happy 21st to Kelsey and a happy 20th to Devan who has now defeated teen pregnancy.  Then on Friday came my roommate Steph's birthday, and I'm sure she appreciated her birthday gift, Jane Eyre on DVD starring some girl and Michael Fassbender who I will 100% admit to saying is my man-crush (the dude is Magneto), which was hidden in the toaster.  Last night her and I ventured out to hit up a few hotspots downtown, the first of which was a rather upscale restaurant-lounge where we haunted the bar and got progressively more intoxicated (and I spent so much money..) while the live band played Top 40 hits like Just Dance (awesome), and the second of which was an Irish pub where we went with Steph's brother, cousin and cousin's girlfriend, which also added to the speeding train of inebriation.  As I said before I've become immune to hangovers so my morning was peachy, although I can't say the same for my roommate.  The real party should come on Friday night where we're having the more "traditional" birthday party with our friends coming for the night, and that, too, should be a mess.  Aside from that my driving force to life is next weekend where I'll be traveling to a house filled with exceptional people for the infamous Grey's Anatomy Halloween party; I've been promised cuddles and hardcore drinking so I expect nothing less as I don my best Dempsey.

My Drunk Failure

In a similar sense, I decided to be an idiot in two ways last night upon returning from the bar.  One, I decided that I'm a daring cook, and I proceeded to burn my finger quite badly amidst my culinary mishap; the food was good, though, because I didn't exactly notice my finger hurting until I was finished eating, to which I was suddenly bombarded with throbbing pain and misfortune.  Two, I wrote another My Drunk Blog post, but until hell freezes over, I'm just gonna hang onto that one unpublished.  Why? you say.  Not that my spelling or structure was atrocious - quite the opposite, considering as I scan it now there aren't many spelling mistakes popping out at me - but rather because the subject that I chose to talk about (since, recall, I decided I would hone in on a particular topic) was love.  I guess the idea was at the forefront of my mind due to it being a recurring theme popping up in the conversations I've had with various friends lately at various levels of intoxication.  Perhaps I'll bestow you with some gems (including but not limited to excerpts involving my embarrassing subject):
  • "I can hear my wallet weeping from my dresser.  Hush hush, my dear wallet, we shall survive."
  • "I'm in pain and wish to melt into a puddle of slumber."
  • "I do not wake up every morning and pine for some Juliet on a balcony lamenting that I cannot breathe without her.  I can survive single."
  • I never succeeded in spelling "girlfriend" correctly.  We have girlfriedn, girlfirend, and my favourite, girlrilfriend.
  • "This is a tangent.  Deal with it."

I'm feeling a little dry on subject matter, only two subtitles tonight - I guess that only furthers the idea I'm doing this just so that I don't have to study or write or edit and that maybe when I publish this my eyes will be too heavy and I'll just call it a day.

Friday, October 14, 2011

A post in avoidance of an essay

You might've noticed that my blog has gone under a facelift, and if you didn't notice, well, shame on you for not noticing, and if this is your first visit, well, shame on you for not visiting sooner.  I needed a bit of a change, and I'd say this change was for the better, no?  I think so, anyways.

It's already midway through October (what?) and the intensity of all of my classes is rapidly increasing; between now and the end of November, I have six essays due and four tests.  (Two of the essays and two of the tests are on the last day of class, November 28th, so therefore my funeral is scheduled to be on the 29th.  Do attend.) The first of six papers is due this upcoming Thursday, and naturally, I only just completed reading the book on which the paper is based on.  I've planned to finish it this weekend, by tomorrow, preferably - not actually that tall of an order, since I can in fact knock out an entire (unpolished) essay in two or three hours - and thus, me being an optimist, I've decided to start it tonight, and if things go supremely well, I'll have this essay off my shoulders before the bulk of the weekend passes me by.  Given that I'm furiously typing away at this, a blog post, instead of my essay speaks volumes.  I spent the last hour coming up with a thesis - I deserve a break.

Okay.. the last half hour.

Twenty minutes.

Half of a thesis.

The rudest fucking waitress I've ever had

(by the way: I've made a vow to keep my profanity to a minimum since I believe it removes my credibility, but in this case, this waitress was fucking rude as hell) Yesterday, me and three friends decided to go to the Swiss Chalet (score, I love Swiss Chalet) for dinner.   Upon walking in, we were greeted first by Adele's Someone Like You, and while I adore the song to pieces, it puts me into an absolutely depressed mood whenever I hear it on the radio, like a sad Adele cloud is raining over my sad head.  The hostess said something to the effect of agreeing that the song is the biggest downer known to man (I made my sentiments aloud), lulling us into the false sense of believing that our experience would be a good one.  (cool hostess = good experience?)

A library is louder than how silent this restaurant was.  The youngest occupant aside from our table was easily a 60 year old woman.  I feared momentarily that Swiss Chalet's currency was not money but in fact your youth, but this did not turn out to be the case.  Our waitress appeared to be a kind natured older woman - that is, until her head started spinning and she began to breathe fire upon our table.  She began by taking down our drinks: I was planning on ordering a beer, but my friends opted for water; the waitress confirmed water for my three friends and then walked away.  Upon her return (and production of a water for me, too, so I think perhaps my telepathy has finally started working because I'm assuming she read my mind as a substitute for actually taking down what I would like to drink), I then asked for my beer, to which she replied sharply "You better show me some ID."  Well, that's not unheard of - she seemed to be satisfied before disappearing again.  (by the way, every time she walked back toward the kitchen with menus that customers had finished with, she slammed them down on a ledge)

When taking our orders, she proceeded to cut off my one friend in the middle of his sentence, demanding "White or dark meat?"  I know I have a tendency to be overdramatic, but her tone was absolutely unprofessional and completely rude.  I gave my order strictly to the point, and I wouldn't be surprised if I threw my menu in her stupid face.  When asking for a second beer - what, I drink a lot, and I drink it fast; I'm a big guy - she looked at me and said "You aren't driving, are you?" and by instinct I said "of course not" with a little laugh, prompting her "Well, you better not be" as a response.  Woman, I'm responsible.  At this point my friend decided to ask for a comment card - I was quite intent on leaving one like the elderly person I am (I think Swiss Chalet actually took my youth..), and upon hearing they didn't have any, the dining room manager came over to our table and asked us what was wrong; we were subsequently pestered for the remainder of the meal in effort to see if we were still content.  A spell must have come over our waitress as she suddenly was perfectly polite - perhaps she had a twin.

I didn't tip.  A friend tipped in pennies.

Silly teenagers

In a completely related topic: I hate being written off as ignorant just because I'm a young person.  I understand that there really are the "dumb" ones of my generation - the delinquents, the apathetic, the rude - but to generalize my entire age bracket (I guess "young person") as rude, apathetic delinquents is wrong.  I don't mean to pride myself, but I generally consider myself to be extremely polite; I'm quite obviously educated; I don't loiter or kick down mailboxes and cats.  The people I willingly associate myself with are the same: they're polite, they're educated, they're civilized and personable and presentable and cultured.  To assume that just because I'm a teenager or student or young adult I must be disrespectful is, well, disrespectful.  It's as if I need to walk around in public with a resume tacked onto my forehead: hello, I go to the University of Toronto, and I'm civilized (and probably smarter than you).


I only decided to start watching just two new shows this fall TV season: New Girl, which has made me fall completely in love with Zooey Deschanel (and it doesn't hurt that the show is actually funny), and American Horror Story, which you may never have heard of, but you might be a more sane and overall better person without watching it.  I have been completely obsessed with the show since it began last week, given that it produces mystery after fucked up (I permit that "fucked") mystery and deranged visual without sense.  The premise is simply that a family moves into a haunted house, but by haunted house, I mean that there's a creepy child demon imp in the basement and a latex bondage ghost man who raped and impregnated the main character with its latex bondage ghost baby and that there's a bunch of people who just appear in the house at the strangest of times leading me to believe that everyone's dead.  Oh, and this old maid with a blind eye who everyone sees as an old maid with a blind eye except for the father who sees her as a sexy young woman who he keeps running into while she's touching herself.  Right!?  The show has completely enthralled me and even if I felt like giving up on it I'd just feel as though I was cheating myself out of discovering the answers: why do characters move in and out of the house so easily?  Why is there a latex bondage ghost man?  Just.. why?

A snazzy listen

I recently downloaded Nicola Roberts' CD Cinderella's Eyes.  Who? you say.  She's a member of a girl group from the UK called Girls Aloud (who? you say), and I kept reading that her debut solo album was fantastic, so I gave it a listen.  (I always did like her voice the best out of the five of them - she's the ginger one with transparent skin) The entire album is really quite good, and I've been listening to it constantly.  That and She & Him.  Zooey Deschanel, just be mine already..

There you have it.  I suppose I should return to that essay/half thesis..

Monday, October 10, 2011

Turkeyless Thanksgiving

I find myself back home more often than I would've imagined.  I've traveled back to my motherland (maybe traveled isn't the operative word - it takes less than a half an hour, and saying "traveled" makes it seem like I swam the Atlantic or something) every other weekend (I was home last week and am back this week so I guess the pattern's been broke given the holiday).  I live for mashed potatoes and gravy and turkey, and upon learning I wouldn't be having a traditional dinner with either sides of my extended family this year, I was initially disappointed.  Regardless, I had a good weekend.

Saturday night consisted of going out with a collection of some pretty great people, my good friends from home, as we were advance celebrating two birthdays.  The birthday girls got a wee bit intoxicated, and when I say "wee bit," I actually mean staggering around and/or sitting on collapsing tables.  The sting of moving away and fully being away from my best friends still hasn't hit me, as in some cases, I've seen some every other week or even more frequently.  Nevertheless, it was awesome to be together again (for the most part, save for a few who didn't make it).

Sunday, yesterday, has usually been the more traditional day for the entire dinner production for my family; that, this year, was replaced by a family wedding.  It was my mom's cousin's son who got married (I think that's right).  My mom's side of the family is so massive that I haven't even attempted to map out who everyone was or how they were related for me; I settle for nodding every time I got the "the last time I saw you, you were so small!" because yes, I doubt I was 6'4 when I was three.  I've been to my fair share of family weddings throughout my life, and I always find myself having fun, regardless of how long the ceremony carries on for (can't believe I didn't burst into flames upon entering the church; it was also good thinking that I set my phone to silent as my ringtone is the most religiously appropriate song I can think of, Judas) or how sweaty I become with my shirt tucked in and my belt one notch too tight.  The ceremony was very nice, but it was in Armenian, so I twiddled my thumbs waiting for it to be over faster than I would want a regular service to conclude.  The reception hall was impressive.  The dinner courses carried on for a good three hours to my misfortune given that I had stuffed myself on the bread and was full before the first course.  Afterward came the dancing, and I tried my hardest to remain clamped to the table in my seat to avoid having to get up, but I ended up weirdly shifting around the dance floor regardless just to say that I did to my pestering family members.  There was an open bar, too, but my drinking was so off and on that I wasn't overly drunk; I'm sure the mixture of the different alcohols would've floored anyone else - I had a good amount of wine and rum and a few beers and tequila shots which I was urged to take with my second cousins - but my spreading it over the night kept me from sitting on tables and having them collapse under me like my aforementioned friend.  I wish I could've stayed longer as it was near the end that I got to be around the people more closer to my age (second cousins - all involved in the wedding procedure as the emcees or part of the bridal party, meaning responsibility had to be upheld until the schedule for the reception was complete and the "party" could start), but my family, used to going to bed around 10pm on regular nights, was getting tired and insisted on leaving.

What am I thankful for?  That is, after all, the point of the holiday (even though to be honest I've been more concerned with the serving sizes of turkey and mashed potatoes on my plate). Well, I'd say, good friends, good education, good looks (HA), good internet connection here at home so I can download torrents, good TV like Parks & Recreation, and the good Kate Winslet.  In all seriousness, though, I really do take a lot of things in my life for granted, and I am thankful for all the positives in my life.  I'm thankful for my blog!

As always,  

Thursday, October 6, 2011

A little birdie told me..

I'm now on Twitter!  Here's hoping I'm not a failure at this.. follow me!

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Headache, headache, go away

To say my posts as of late have become unfocused and largely irrelevant is an understatement.  Just scrolling down you would find a mostly disturbing post penned two weeks ago when I had been drinking, and if that didn't send you scrambling for the back button on your browser (although it's a recommended read for the laughs and to see how colourful my vernacular still is even after beer), it's even more disturbing to see posts since August on the main page repeating my stresses about living alone ad nauseum.  My friends, it looks as though the credibility of my blog has gone down to the dumps, but that shant stop me from keeping it running, as the times that I do force myself to sit down and type as I am right now (well, more appropriately, I'm snuggled in bed.  Yes, snuggled) still provide me with the greatest of creative releases, and with a slew of midterms and essays hurtling towards me causing my brain to slowly pound against my skull, I'm thankful for the creative relief tonight.  Will this post push my blog back towards its former glory where I actually blogged about things I assumed people cared about?  No.  Not at all.

Cooking Schmooking

(what in God's graces, Firefox, "schmooking" is certainly not a word - where is the mean red line of error!?)  I'm a regular culinary connoisseur.  Most nights during the week I settle for the quick fix of Kraft Dinner or Sidekicks straight from the pot (ssh, don't tell) but every so often, I'm struck with some sort of desire to cook legitimate food, and I've since surprised myself that I haven't given myself salmonella or food poisoning.  Quite the opposite: I'm not a bad cook at all, and while what I've actually prepared has been restricted to chicken and its variants (I'm a poor student.  I'm not going to buy beef), I shock myself bite after bite with succulence.  In fact, tonight I made myself breaded chicken, my particular favourite, and I decided to be adventurous and make homemade fries like my mom does on rare occasions back home (AND I didn't fail!).  While everything on my plate was fried fried fried, it was damn good.  That somehow leads to my next point..

Bed Potato; or Swirly Desk Chair Potato

(I do not own a couch; thus I am not a couch potato) I've feared the dreaded "Freshmen 15" even though 1. I'm not a freshman; I guess I'm a junior? and 2. if I don't think my body is actually capable of gaining fifteen more pounds.  With that in mind, I made sure that during my first weeks I didn't eat like crap - and, say, it actually paid off, for with going to the gym every so often, I actually lost a bit of weight.  Cue my grandmother.  Since going home two weeks ago and returning with boxes of cookies sent from my grandmother (who, as history serves, always brings me and my sister pounds and pounds of chocolate bars every visit, so I guess in a sense I'm lucky I came away without chocolate) my eating patterns have gone to shits.  I try my best to limit my food intake from fast food places on campus to a minimum, maybe once or twice a week, but I can't help the Lazy Monster smacking me in the face some nights forcing me to cave and get a slice of pizza out of minimal desire to make myself something in the kitchen.  Somewhat related, I haven't gone to the gym in the past little while, and I hate myself for it.  The thing is, when I go to the gym, it's all cardio, so I sweat like a beast (grimy details) and I have to shower when returning; I shower every morning because my bedhead hair is beastly, so logically I'd go to the gym after waking up and before showering, but morning after morning when my alarm goes off at 9am I call it a very bad name (my alarm clock has been called "you motherfucker" or "shut up, you dumbass bitch") and opt for another hour of sleep before class.  Can you blame me?  My schedule is horrid.

Procrastinator Supreme

I am the least productive person on the planet.  I've read more books for pleasure this semester than I have for assigned readings.  I have two midterms on Friday - two!  I swear, the English department professors convene and schedule their heavily weighted tests all on the same day while drinking from goblets and cackling at the misfortune of us poor migraine and hand cramp-ridden students.. - and I have yet to legitimately study for them.  I have an essay due in two weeks on a book that I haven't yet taken down from my dusty shelf.  I skip most of my dry readings so that I can rush to play the Sims 3 on my computer; it was a very bad idea bringing that with me away to school (by the way, my vampire Sim got divorced from his wife because he discovered she had a child with someone else - say wha?).  Or, I..

Obsessed Parks and Recreation nonstop.  I finished the entire series (up until what's airing) in a matter of four days.  The show is downright hysterical, and when I'm not actually rewatching episodes (and for that matter, still laughing as hard as I did the first time around), I'm finding clips on Youtube and watching them on an infinite loop until the end of time, or, until I decide it's no longer a human hour to be awake and that I should probably just shut my eyes and go to sleep.  It's so good.  I recommend it with every recommending fibre of my being.  I've decided that I really must stop buying DVDs - I've bought four movies plus the third season of Parks and Rec in the past month - or I should just avoid anything that can be watched on any sort of screen altogether.  Now that regular scheduled television is back, I also find myself rushing my readings so that I can be snuggled into my bed as I am now ready to watch Glee (urgh) and New Girl (I've decided to include Zooey Deschanel to my list of prospective wives) on Tuesdays or Criminal Minds and Modern Family on Wednesdays and - deep breath - Big Bag Theory, Parks and Recreation, Grey's Anatomy (it's out of laboured obligation now..) and Jersey Shore on Thursdays.  Am I missing anything?  Probably..

Well, that's my life now.  I either post here drunk, or I eat like junk while not doing my school work and watching "Leslie Knope's Accent" on Youtube over and over again.  (go Youtube it)