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Archive for February, 2010

If I lay here on my back like this, and close my eyes just enough, and look at that desk in the corner, and you just lay exactly where you are, with your upturned face half facing me and your hair spread on the pillow, in this dark room, you look like that Gainsbourg girl.

are you alright?

there is a stranger, here in your bed, who doesn’t know you, and who worries about monies owed, and moneys burrowed, and monies needed, and monies earned.there is a stranger in your bed who looks uglier than you think, than you’d want.

Goddamn this city is so full of pretty girls, I can’t compete.

and there is a stranger in your bed, who isn’t as smart as you’d wish. and there is a stranger in this bed who doesnt want to get out of bed this morning, because this bed, this non-bed, used as bed mattress we brought from your “home” and spread out here so that we have a mattress to sleep on, is the closest thing to the comfort of numbness that your stranger needs.

and your blurry, Gainsbourg thinks to when holding her hand, driving in that car, drunk and mean-spirited and messed up, you said “fuck man what if I run into my girlfriend”, and you said “tell me you like me”

and I felt so sick, and I still feel sick.

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its so strange what a little perspective can do. what seemed like a brilliant idea at the time just seems so desperate and misguided. and as i sit here, with your scent inside of me, I wonder, what I did before you. before aimless drives, and going in loops around this cold city, you pointing out various girls, me rolling the window down, and watching myself in the rare view mirror listening to starsailor’s “misguided fool”.

 ****

Spending $60 on Lemony Snicket’s 4 last books, just to complete my collection, when I desperately need a new pair of shoes and a decent purse, is only a good idea when you are standing beside me spending $200 on philosophy books so thick you dont have enough of a life time to finish reading them.

*****

maybe one day ill have a children’s library, and I read to them Grimm tales…that would be the perfect life. that and Brie cheese in saturday morning omelet.

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I found my diary of 15-19 yesterday.

Im happy im not 15-19.

I also found a photo album of my early 20s. Im glad im not in my early 20s.

I organized my law books and codes around our new place. were building a “wall of law.” I didnt even realize I had the book of “Consent & Capacity” until now…

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highschool girls

so im thinking of cutting my hair really short.

i mean pixie, peter pan short. michelle williams after Dawson’s creek short, natalie portman when she was growing out the bald short.

I keep getting told by various hair stylists and the Mister that i would look incredible with the “pixie” cut. The sucky thing is ive been growing this hair out forever.

I first decided to ditch the dominatrix angled bob in July. I was over the whole entire hipster shit, and I really felt i needed a more mature look. The cocaine addict look wasnt doing it anymore. If im honest with myself I just wanted to look more normal, more like every body else. I was so tired of letting a certain kind of hair define me.

in truth id gone back to that style (after once trying to go curly) to look beautiful to a particular person- deciding to grow it out, for me, was the last nail in the coffin of my past. sex wise and drug wise

Originally i wanted to grow it out down to my back, to look more wistful and young and carefree.

the thing is, im too small to have that hippie 1970s look. I have a lot of hair, so much that it swallows me once it grows past my ears, and i just keep having to put it up so i can see where im going, and not look like uncle it going through a heroine phase.

so, back where we started, i’ve decided to get a pixie cut. I had one before when i was JUST about to come to canada. I was 15, and that hair cut and the subsequent experiences traumatized me. by all accounts i looked good int he haircut. I was tiny little girl with short wavy hair, kind of like audry tatou. but then i came to Canada.

in my Italian dominated highschool, all the girls had long gelled to cement hair. and I got called ugly, a lesbian, and a DUDE. because really anyone with short hair can only be one (or all) of those three things. so i cried, and cried and cried and just begged god to speed up my hair growth. which she promptly did- i think- since i have to go and get my eyebrows down every two weeks. what an expensive prayer.

so yes. Im scared. Im scared of being ugly, or looking like a dude. im not scared of looking like a lesbian, because most lesbians I know are pretty fucking hot, so looking like them would be a plus. I especially want a particular ones toned arms, but that can’t be had with a simple hair cut 

 

 This is 

 Alessandra Colombo. shes a designer from I dont know where, and she has the coolest style this side of Sartorialist, who i dont always agree with. the first time i saw her i couldnt figure out if she was a boy or a girl. and thats percisely why I want this hair.

now the thing is, I know, that the reason i want this hair, is also the reason i will most likely cry, weep, and curse A and everyone else who gave me the go ahead and the push. I will probably cry because ill feel ugly and masculine. I know that once i get this hair cut all those horrible highschool memories of girls in wet curls and sparkly nude lipbalms, and short skirts over curved out hips, will come rushing back at me, right after the big reveal.

I know that i wont be ok with it for at least 2 days. which is the case when i get any hair cut. and i know, that where with any other haircut i can just my hair up and wait till it grows back, this one, will be hard to hide.

I also know that once i get this hair, i gotta stay skinny, i gotta maintain the portruding cheekbones.

so…

im still thinking should i keep that 103$ appointment at Vidal Sassoon….?

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start

 

so im at work, and im not so much working as trying to figure out what to write about. its funny when you get down to it, you realize writing, writing substantially, something more than little blurbs of emotional rantings, is very difficult.

so yes. I need a topic.

and im thinking modern fairy tale. except thats been done before. but what hasnt. ok so here are the things id like to write about.

1. A killer toilet  ( i dont know how this popped into my mind just now but it did)

2. 30 year old hipster female, working in a retail chain working on her first novel, allegedly, but getting side tracked by overspending habits and cocaine. — the process it took to get there- her history, her parents, her adoptive parents, she in primary, middle and highschool, university life, hopes and dreams and what made her drop out. — what draws her to drugs, what draws her to the life style. how does she silence the need for “better”ment, how does she justify 10/hr work during the day and 100/night habit. how does she support herself, her worries for the future, her worries for the now. and how she lulls them.

3. autobiography- little immigrant girl- though i think its going to be more like “how to lose friends and alienate people”

ok so here these are for now, im gonna go do WORK. ive done nothing all day and only 2 hours of the work day remains, though this will be good.

going to go to chapters,

get the book,

and walk home in the snow.

I wish i had hot chocolate at home, for now red wine and ciggies will have to do.

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So I’ve finally decided to stop feeling sorry for myself, to pick myself up and do something about it. I’ve decided that instead of blaming other ppl, maybe i should, now that i have the opportunity to, do what I want. So the first thing id like to do…is get published.

so here goes:

1. take writing classes- preferably those on autobiographicalfiction and narrative.

2. gym at 5 am everyday.

3. start job search NOW. as in today. as in after my haircut. look for both legal and alternative jobs id like to hold

ex. column contributor, film critic (im not nearly good at this so ill have to educate myself on this one too)

4. go to Currys and buy a goddamn canvas. stop stinging out.  buy what you want, buy the most expensive paint if I think itll help me

in terms of little things that make me feel good + pretty

5.purchase the following: (a) necklace, (b) earrings, (c) a pair of amazing shoes.

6. every time about to feel sorry for yourself and feel that you are not doing anything with your life, every time little fashion obsessed children make you feel like shit, remind yourself that you, yes YOU, have a women’s studies master and a goddamn LAW DEGREE. and that you will probably make enough money by 35 years old  that you can actually open a women’s focused magazine and keep it afloat even if the lack of diet and wierdass sex tips slows down its sales.

so there.

first step

must register in writer’s workshop. will do so tonight.

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opportunities foregone

why is it that the eldest always get the brunt of the dream crushing stick.

why is it that all is just too hard, and too strict, and too painful, for the eldest.

why is it, that as the eldest immigrant child, I had to give up my dreams, my hopes, my passions and all those things i wanted, just to be told today “you chose this”.

just to be told today, we are giving “her” this, because she is alone now, now that you are not here.

but what about me. I think. I was alone. I was the loneliest in fact. I was lonely since the moment i was born, when my grandmother decided i was ugly and when my mother decided i was dumber than my brother, and when my father decided I was probably a whore who had to be protected from the touches of men, and when my cousins decided this skin and bones rag-sack was all fair game for their ridicule, and bites and scratches.

I was the loneliest when i had to stick a sharp pencil in the roof of my mouth, blood gushing out of my mouth, 12 stitches after, to get attention, at the age of 5. in a class where no one looked at me, or talked to me, or played with me, when the most extensive interaction I ever had was with a boy in glasses who called me names everyday on the school bus, whose eyes I scratched.

I was the loneliest when at 10, enrolled in a religious school, the other girls, long-haired, round hipped, breast sprouting and pious eyed, never talked to me, and the teacher said, in the middle of the class, I think you are retarded.

I was the loneliest when at 15, in Toronto, catholic school, a boy, fat, possibly gay, sat beside me and mocked: are you a  lesbian? you have a mustache. are you a lesbian? and Ryan, the blond boy i decided i was in love with said” so does your dad own guns, do u ride camels”. yes I said. anything for him.

and so I grew, and I grew, and I wanted so much to do film, to do design, to write, and to create. create anything really and I felt oh so compelled. and then, she said you know your dad wont let you.

and I was lonely those night my friends went out, and stayed out past 6, with me at home.

and I hate them.

I hate them all.

I hate me.

I hate me for not fighting them for what i wanted. for letting their money, their instant flow of cash lull me into staying, and killing myself for them. in hopes of making them happy, in hopes of being the immigrant dream child.

and i still have nothing.

its me,

a room full of boxed stories of molestation and rape,

and a busted laptop where i watch my sisters dream of what should have been mine,

blossom.

I have nothing else to give.

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