Help Cancer Beat Playground.

Hello faithful readers! This is not so much a post as a request for you to take a few minutes of your time to help support a good cause. There is a project create a center in Ottawa providing Whole-Person Cancer Care Regardless of Income which is currently a semi-finalist for the Aviva Community Fund. Supportive care during cancer treatment can greatly increase the quality of life for people, but not everyone can afford it. Please, follow this link, then register to vote. You have a total of 10 votes and can vote once a day, meaning if you simply take a few seconds everyday to vote for the next 10 days, you could help to create a center that has the potential to improve the lives of many Canadians.

Currently, there are about 6 different playground projects beating it in votes. I love playgrounds as much as the next person, but really? How many playgrounds have cured cancer? Okay, probably one or two, because laughter and playing "the ground is lava" are the best medicine. Anyways, please vote for quality of life for many Canadians over playgrounds.

Maybe I have elevator rage, but I think it's righteous

Thought of the day: I have a great deal of disdain for people who press both the up and down button when waiting for the elevator to make it come faster. I know that there are rumors that doing that is the secret code that will cause the elevator to spew out any inhabitants and break the laws of physics to come to your beck and call, but most studies indicate that this belief is false. Mainly it will just make me have to stop on your floor when I'm in a hurry to get home so that we can have an awkward conversation about how the elevator is going up 10 floors and you only want to go down 2 so maybe you should wait for the other one. Please, next time you're waiting for an elevator, just press one button indicating the direction that you actually want to go. If it helps, imagine that the other button is actually a bomb trigger attached to some sort of something you would rather have not exploded. It will save us both time. Actually, it might only save me time, but that will save you my silent curses that probably don't do anything, but if they do, you're going to wake up hairless, so best not to risk it.

Not striving for quality or quantity, but simply existence

I've been trying to blog frequently since my last post, but I'm finding that between work, running, frisbee and studying, I just don't have the time to produce the free-flowing rambles I have become accustom to publishing. Well, I do have the time for them, just not time to write them down. If I could take all the thoughts that run through my head while I'm running and transcribe them, that might work, but I'm not yet aware of any thought extracting technology that could accomplish that for me, so they're generally lost to the ages by the time I'm home. However, one did stick with me yesterday, and that idea was that instead of trying to produce the longer posts I used to and failing, that maybe I should just periodically blog whatever random thing occured to me during the day that managed to stay until I had a chance to record it.

Actually, I lied, two thoughts stuck with me yesterday, that one I just mentioned, the shorter, slightly less coherent, posts idea, and one about how awesome my running music is. This occured to me as the non-dance remix version of Safety Dance came on. I also have a dance remix version, hence the distinction. Sometimes, if I'm pretty sure there aren't any people around, I'll spell safety outloud, because how can you not. If there are people around, I just imagine that I'm in the video, which improves my running since the people in it generally terrify me, and terror naturally leads to speed.

My exercise music is pretty much an accumulation of every song that has ever motivated me in my life that I have on my computer, which I think makes me cool. But as I was running, I thought that perhaps not everyone would realize exactly how cool I am, because only I can hear my music when that song they sing in the Muppet Movie when they're painting Fozzie's uncle's Studebaker comes on. So I decided to blog it. Which I just did. So there we go.

I think this new blogging will go well.

A Variety of Ways I hope not to Die in the Near Future

I've been working for 2 weeks to pass the 80 posts mark on this blog. It has not worked. I keep on thinking amazing blog thoughts, but it's always when I'm running or biking and I don't have my iPod to record them, so they are lost to the ages. I always say to myself that this one is so great that I will remember it for eternity, but it's not and I do.

I raced Shamus. He won the race, but I kicked teenage Sharon's ass, so I'm feeling pretty good about that. I was so thrilled by the whole event that I signed up for a half marathon in March, partially to force myself to exercise going into the final days of studying for boards. The threat of dying trying to run a stupidly long distance because I haven't done the proper prep work will probably be enough to tear me away from my books for an hour a day, or at least to bring some cue cards to a treadmill. If not, at least I'll have something other than the potential that I failed the exam to worry about after it's done. I really hope I didn't sign up to die though, because a t-shirt is not worth much if you are dead, and I really want that t-shirt.

The other day, I brought a bunch of helium balloons home that were leftover from work, and by a bunch, I mean 24. Well, it would have been 24 had I not lost 3 in a tree on the way home. Things like that make me want to waste more paper, because, let's face it, trees are kind of mean. They've also stolen a few kites in my life. I wish they would just buy their own balloons and kites and stop taking mine, or at least stop complaining when we chop them down and use their flesh to make post-its. Whiny bastards.

Anyways, I walked home with many balloons, but was sad at the number of people who didn't even blink at someone walking down Sheppard Avenue at 8:30 with a whole bunch of balloons. It's like these people never had a childhood. Where was their unbearable envy of my situation? They didn't even have one helium balloon and I had between 21 and 24, depending on when they saw me. If balloons = happiness, I was an infinite amount more happy than they were. That's right, infinite. Unless they had one balloon that I didn't know about, then I was 20-24x more happy. Actually, now that I am home, I have 21 balloons most people I run into on the street are unaware of, so perhaps I just ran into all the balloon hoarders in Toronto who secretly knew that their happiness was equivalent to mine. That explains it. The good thing about hoarding helium balloons is that they won't fall over and crush you. That is what makes me not a hoarder, the falling and crushing aspect. Otherwise, I love random crap, so I'd be all over the hoarding thing, were it not for the sudden death by crushing and/or smothering that would almost certainly occur at some point.

My happy song for the last few months has been Wraith Pinned to the Mist (and other games) by Of Montreal. My roommate Byla also likes it, but I think it is because she is from the frozen North, so feels a deep soulful connection with Antarctica. I wonder if kids from the North try to dig holes to Antarctica instead of China. That would have made me work harder at digging, because penguins are cute. Wait, so are panda bears. But, the tie-breaking factor is that panda bears are bears and penguins are not bears, so of the two cute cuddly things, one is much more obviously going to maul me. Then again, I would have been in the north, where digging is much harder because of the plentiful ice, so the motivation probably would have just brought me to the same point that any attempt to dig a hole to China got, which was not ever particularly far, usually right around the bottom of my sandbox, at which point the wooden bottom posed a challenge I was too lazy to ever overcome.

Practice makes perfect.

The last few days have been a little bitter sweet. I'm back from my near death experience, which is good. I promised myself if I rested until Sunday night, I could go to my ultimate game on Monday, and rest I did. So, Monday night came and I was incredibly excited to play. I was there early to warm up, since it felt like forever since I'd played. But, apparently one of the remaining effects of my cold was either blindness or poor reaction time, I'm not really sure which, all I know is that I caught a disc right in the eye. It was a beautiful throw, if only I'd seen it on time to catch it, or at least to bob a bit.

Later it turned out that maybe the universe really wanted to connect my head with hard plastic flying objects, because another frisbee ricocheted off the top of my head, right into the hands of my team mate in the N-zone. That was actually pretty sweet. I knew at some point my erratic running in circles would pay off somehow. I got many high fives.

Anyways, I woke up today hoping that I wouldn't have a black eye. I was actually quite worried that the frisbee in the eye was the universes way of teaching me not to be too cocky, since I had commented that morning on the fact that most days it really doesn't make a difference whether I wear makeup or not, cause I'm just that gorgeous. Not only would a black eye force me to wear makeup, it would ensure that the entire process of applying it would be as painful as possible. Touche universe (I know I should accent that touche, but I've never really figured out how to do that...I should probably ask friends with accents in their names, since they probably have figured it out by now). But, to my surprise, I woke up with my eye still tender to the touch, but with no visible signs of bruising.

I suspect that despite being a ginger, I'm somehow immune to bruising. Maybe I just don't have enough blood. Or maybe it is also ginger and thus blends in with my skin. I'm not really sure about the physiology of this condition.

Regardless, I was pretty excited, and thought maybe things were going my way. No bruising, and I was going to finally start biking to work again after a week of walking/subwaying. My excitement must have distracted me from noticing the sky opening up to drench the city, because I ended up completely soaked less than a minute into the trip. Somehow I made it to work on time, changed and dry, with the squelching of my shoes the only sign of exactly how miserable I felt. Then, I learned that I would need to stay late and somehow figure out how to close the store. I clarified a few times that the main thing I needed to do for this whole closing thing was to ensure we weren't robbed blind or set on fire. I like to set small, acheivable goals, which is good, because at some point in my 10 hour shift, I became quite hypoglycemic and my brain shut off. Still, somehow eventually I managed to get the gate to lock and escape into the night.

But Melvina (my bike) was still waiting for me, and my hypoglycemic brain couldn't work my theft proof bike lock. And, in trying to open it without fully inserting the key, I managed to bend the key until it was unusable once I finally realized what I was doing wrong. I called my roommate Byla, desperate, and she offered to bring my spare-key on the subway, which probably saved my life, because the hypoglycemia was really starting to mess with my brain. While waiting for her, I realized that I had a bag of celery in my bag, which probably wouldn't help the blood sugar, but would amuse me for a spell. So, I sat on the wet ground beside my bike, eating celery and singing showtunes to stop me from crying while I waited for the most wonderful roommate in the world to rescue my bike. No one even looked at me twice. People are weird. I would have looked twice and then probably comment on how weird people are that aren't me.

Eventually my spell in purgatory ended, and I made it home. Actually, I made it before Byla, because there were subway delays. I love Byla, because she didn't kick my ass, even though she would have been in the right. This fact made me realize that although it seems like I'm going through a bad time, maybe it's not so bad, because it's when you have a really really shitty day and you're totally hypoglycemic and can barely see straight that you realize what kind of friends you have in your life. I realized I have good ones. Some people realize other things on days like that, and that is a real bad day. Mine was just a chance to practice being stoic. Next time I'll try to do it without singing Close Every Door from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. But I can't promise anything.

People suck. Except for you. I like you. Probably.

Today, I went to work, even though I'm still pretty sure I'm facing imminent death, but that's no reason not to continue to build up my estate. I'm not sure if people were more rude and stupid, or whether I was just more sensitive to the general rudeness and stupidity that exists around me every day because I'm sick right now. A woman came in to the store and asked what samples we have. I was confused and didn't really know off the top of my head, since our testers aren't always consistent and I wasn't really trained to memorize what is free in the store. She couldn't really wait for me to look though. "I'm not going to buy anything, I just need something to get this fish smell off my hands," she said impatiently. As I spent another 10 seconds looking, she said, as if I were an incompetent idiot, "Surely you must have something."

I think it was just irritating because of the absolute lack of appreciation for the system we're working in. Yes, she clearly had money, and I'm assuming that allows her to be pretty nasty to people in everyday life. But, when you're going into a store and blatantly announcing that you won't be buying anything, there is no reason for me to give a crap how much money you have. I'm paid to be nice to people, with money from products sold to said people. I'm not paid by people stealing free samples. If you're going to come into a store and announce that you have no intention of purchasing anything, at least understand that I have no obligation to treat you any better than you're treating me. People aren't being nice to you because you are awesome or you deserve it, they are being nice because they want your money, so if they already know they're not going to get it, they might just start acting exactly like you. If you're going to be a total bitch, at least do it with logic and don't announce that you're not buying anything as if it entitles you to better service from me. That is all I ask.

Other people were irritating, but just in your standard, run of the mill, I-hate-my-life-so-I'm-going-to-do-my-best-to-try-to-make-you-hate-yours-as-well-but-really-it's-just-going-to-make-you-hate-me-further-increasing-the-total-hate-in-the-world-directed-at-me kind of way. So I won't write anymore about those.

Sometimes, I walk to the grocery store nearby because it's the closest washroom to the store. Today, they had various jazz ensembles playing to celebrate something or other. Instead of making me happy, or giving me a desire to buy many groceries, it just made me sad. These people spend their life trying to make it as a musician, and then they end up playing in a grocery store. I guess it could be better than busking, but I feel like busking has a certain nobility to it that playing for people buying their broccoli doesn't. I imagine that playing jazz standards in a grocery store probably gives the mind a lot of time to wander and consider where exactly ones musical career is going. I know it very well could end up being one of the first scenes in the made for TV movie about the making of their incredibly successful band in 20 years, but somehow I doubt it. Partially because TV probably won't exist anymore, replaced with some sort of brain chip receiving from a satellite that just gives you new entertaining memories, or something equally terrifying. Either way, every bathroom break made me a little sadder than the one before, which is not the point of a bathroom break.

But, in the end, the whole day was made better by free cake, reminding me that there is nothing that cannot be solved by free dessert. Except perhaps for respiratory infections, which will most likely be made much worse by the simple sugars feeding the little bastards currently making me miserable. However, I can probably take solace in the fact that every random antisocial idiot that I encountered today also encountered my germs. Life really isn't all that bad I guess.

Two in one day? I'm like a machine. A bored, cold-ridden machine.

I'm still sick, which isn't surprising, since it's been less than a day since I wrote the first post talking about my life-threatening cold. The prognosis is my own, if you're wondering, and based on no established medical knowledge, but I have a sense for these things. It's not the first time I've had a self-diagnosed potentially fatal illness, so I know a lot about it. Luckily I managed to survive all those other times, allowing me to have a wealth of personal experience on the subject.

Anyways, I did some other things to amuse myself today. I played Zelda for awhile. That was good times, kind of, you know, whatever. Then I sat staring at the wall, before I decided that I had gathered enough energy to venture out into the world to obtain a library card. I haven't had a non-school-issued library card for a good 10 years, at least, after I lost mine so many times I was too embarrassed to get a new one. I hear that a library card is like a key to the world of imagination. I'm hoping that key works both ways, because I think I might want to get out of that world. Actually, I lie, I'm quite happy here, where I'm allowed to keep Oompa-loompas as pets and most houseplants recite poetry expressing their deep yearning for freedom (it's tragic, but entertaining).

Anyways, after checking out a few random books, coming home and getting bored with them, I decided I should probably just post again, because they have become so few and far between that I would shock everyone reading (ie. my parents) if I managed to post two in one day. So, I thought I'd write about the true reason I started posting less, which is that I have a horrible fear of this blog becoming self-indulgent.

After further reflection I realized this is a ridiculous fear. It's already self-indulgent. In fact, it's always been self-indulgent. I just was so self-indulgent that I self-indulgently convinced myself that it wasn't. But, if it actually wasn't self-indulgent, I probably would not have survived past one post if I'd even written that one at all, which I wouldn't have, because I would have been indulging myself in some other way, most likely involving chocolate, because it is most delicious. What I failed to realize in all my fears of becoming self-indulgent is that people only actually label people self-indulgent when they are actually successful. Really, when someone is creatively successful, there are only two potential directions: self-indulgent or sell-out. In the end, it's just that some people don't like certain creations and need to have a label for it that ensures that all others know they are justified in not liking it.

Luckily for me, I am not commercially successful, so, I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want, since my family is not about to label me either way (although I sometimes wonder if I should watch the swearing...). Most of the time people that are not genetically related to me mention this blog, it's usually followed by, "well, I don't read it all the time", which I already know, because I've written pretty much nothing for months and they're speaking like it exists in the present tense. There might have been a time where this bugged me, mainly when I was dreaming of random lazy writings somehow translating into much money and happiness. I hadn't quite figured out how, but thought it was something like Blog ----> _________ ----> have someone drop off big bags of money at my door ----> use said money to buy happiness. But I'm not sure I care now. I like to be able to repeat jokes in a social context and have everyone laugh because they have no idea that I used pretty much the same line in 3 separate blog posts because I'm not really overly original. With none of my friends reading this, I'm pretty much safe to parrot myself at every chance I get, which is good, because I enjoy both parrots and their propensity for crackers.

In conclusion, I am completely self-indulgent, and pretty much cool with that fact. I'm going to continue to alternate between neglecting this blog and writing far too much information about the inner workings of my mind. Some of the time, instead of writing this blog, I will write angry e-mails to major companies and see if I get free stuff, or if instead I will have to boycott them for life. That's just how I roll.

Happy song: Downtown by Petula Clark. I challenge you to listen to section with the key change followed by instrumental solo without feeling happy. However, if I lose the challenge, I don't really care, because I'll just listen to it again and perk right up. It's win-win for me.

I'm average, biatch.

My lungs have decided to strike. I woke up the other day struggling to breath. I'm not quite sure when they even unionized, I clearly didn't get the memo on that one. Luckily, there must be some scabs crossing the picket line, because I don't need to be on a ventilator...yet. Anyways, my general state of hypoxia left me with nothing to do that won't make the situation worse, until I remembered this blog and figured this is probably the time to actually write something, since typing takes minimal effort. I can't guarantee that it will be any good, since thinking takes a little bit more effort.

To begin, I have some advice. When you are sick with a lung infection and the lack of air has caused insomnia, a bad thing to read to help to sleep is a biography of Jim Henson. Yes, most of it is just happy muppet goodness, but if you get to the end it will really help the hypochondria to take over. As wonderful as Kermit is, just wait until you're better. Just trust me on this one.

Anyways, I can kind of see why my lungs might choose to abandon me at this point. I've been feeling a little under the weather for the past few weeks, but despite that I ran a 10k charity run on Sunday morning, then biked to work (whining the whole way about how stupid it was). As stupid as it was, the whole thing made me very proud. You see, throughout my life, I have received much recognition for my extraordinary ability to try when it comes to anything athletic. On any team I've ever been on, I have been appreciated for my constant trying. Of course, being the best at trying is generally a bad thing, because if you were actually succeeding, no one would notice your incredibly impressive trying (and it's pretty damn impressive, if I do say so myself, which I do).

In high school, I was well known on the cross country team for my trying. I'm not sure how I ended up on the cross country team, I think it was mainly because there was no limitation on team numbers so they took anyone. Sometimes when you say you ran cross country in high school, people assume that means you can run. That is a key example of why when you assume it makes an ass out of you and me. You because you're so very wrong, and me because I have to explain that my main contribution to the cross country team was, for the most part, managing to get through races without walking and/or dying.

Once, I got passed by the first place runner in the race that started after mine. He was nice enough to encourage me on in my valiant attempt not to die. Another time, my friend (who could run) finished the race, got her results and ran back to cheer me on as I finished. I was the person on the team that's contribution was making all the other members feel good that, if nothing else, they at least had me coming in behind them. I think it helped that I was very comfortable with this place. Back of the pack is a special place. You can cheer others on as you pass them, because you know they're eventually going to pass you back and that there's really no difference between 87th and 88th place in the grand scheme of things. Often, I would make temporary race friends, because, in the end, these were my people, those poor souls, struggling to survive.

But, this Sunday, everything changed. I got to the end of my 10k to discover that I am no longer a complete loser in the realm of running. I'm now distinctly middle of the pack. That's right. I'm not particularly good or particularly bad. I'm just there, running, like a normal person. My world has been turned upside-down, well, maybe not upside-down, but kind of on its side. I am an average runner.

I may have let this new position in life get to my head too quickly. My brother Shamus and I were having a conversation the other day that somehow ended with a challenge for us to race when he's visiting in a few weeks. In general, challenges with Shamus end with him winning, a fact that I've usually accepted prior to even suggesting we compete. Not that he's better than me at everything, for instance, I am a distinctly better tryer, and I'm more skilled at losing gracefully. But, my big head caused by my recent discovery that I am now average has led me to actually think I could win this one. Of course, my lungs disagree, but I'm sure they'll get in line soon enough. Maybe I'll just threaten to take up smoking, or something, that'll teach them not to mess with me. Maybe I'll call that Plan B, since I'm hoping that the time spent staying still writing this blog might have built enough goodwill for them to consider returning to work, at least long enough for me to kick Shamus' ass. He'll be sorry he ever questioned the power of my newfound averageness.

I love you Melvina

I bought a bike the other day to aid in my most recent life goal, which is to complete a triathlon at some point prior to untimely death. I thought a good first step would be owning a bike. Actually, that was the second step, the first step was being able to run 5km without keeling over. But I don't call it the first step because I didn't really start thinking about the triathlon until step one was already complete and I was already running double that distance and only vaguely considering the fact that I was likely going to drop dead in the middle of the forest, which would really irritate all the other path users.

It's good to note that the thought of inconveniencing others is a good motivator to keep running and not die. Well, it is for me, it might not be for you, especially if you happen to be a jerk. I'm not sure what you should use to motivate your not dying if you're a jerk. Maybe the thought that if you did drop dead, or, I guess, close to death, you'd give the opportunity for some dogooder to feel good about themselves for saving your life despite you swearing at them the whole time. I'm assuming you would swear at them, but I'm not a jerk, so I don't know, maybe you would bite them instead. Well, at least, I don't think I'm a jerk, but I guess no one really does, which is why sometimes I like to just tell people they're a jerk. Now that I think about it, that's probably one of the things that makes me a jerk. Don't worry, I'll tell myself later, when I'm not busy thinking about how much I love my new bike.

This new love began from the moment I started my test ride. It was like in the movie Avatar. But with a bike instead of a dragonesque creature with a name I can't remember and don't care to google. I've named her Melvina. She was originally named Melvin before I realized she'd really rather be a girl bike. I do not judge. Gender choices aside, I knew I could not live without her and bought her, along with a massive locking system to prevent the severe dehydration that would result from our ever being separated.

Part of the bike buying plan was that I would ride it to work. This plan was further supported by the massive drop in available budget incurred buying Melvina, effectively cutting out my TTC funds. It's okay, because the public transportation situation was starting to bug me. One day, I was on the bus and a rider started batting at my shopping bag. That's right, batting, like a kitty-cat would. Then her stared straight at me. Like a kitty-cat. Nothing else about him said kitty-cat, which made the entire interaction just scream "psychokiller". Perhaps psychokiller is an exaggeration. But I don't think so. I also think that the Kitty-cat Killer has a good ring to it, although one would assume they kill cats. That would probably be confusing, so I take back my previous statement.

Who keeps Googling "Cereal Face Guy"?

Hello loyal followers (ie. family) and people that typed in the wrong URL or were looking for information on "cereal face guy"! (Oh, the "cereal face guy" thing is an inside joke, by which I mean, inside my own head...unless I blogged it already, which I wouldn't know, because I don't really read this blog. It doesn't interest me.)

I bet you didn't think you'd be hearing from me again. Or you did. I know it's one of the two. I'd meant to get in another post before August ended, but then it did, and I didn't. Life has changed. I am now employed, as my mother probably told you, (unless you are my mother, in which case I told you). I also am moving into the big room in my apartment, which offers excellent new private dance party potential. I've been running a lot, which makes for good conversation about how sore my muscles are, so I am making many friends. My point? I've moved on, my dear blog reading friends.

Actually, that is untrue, obviously, because I'm writing this. It seemed for a time that maybe the part of my brain that makes me blog had finally been blogged out, that the month and a half of daily writing had finally gotten out all the crazy and left me with only sane. Actually, it didn't seem that way at all, it was more like I'd gotten out all the entertaining crazy and was left with only the boring crazy (you know, emotions and crap...although, some emotions can be entertaining crazy, like righteous anger about trivial issues, which, I believe, is comedy gold).

So, I decided that the more interesting crazy side of me might be returning when I was on the subway last night and saw a woman in uniform and immediately thought that maybe she was a ghostbuster. It was only for a split second, then I though "That's odd, that my mind would jump to ghostbuster". I was correct, it is very strange. First of all, I haven't encountered a ghost here in ages, so I can't see how a ghostbuster could survive in this economic climate. Second, even if they could, I don't imagine they could afford to have uniforms, you know, with needing to eat and all. Although, I bet just one Stay Puft Marshmallow Man would feed you for a few years. I don't think they really can go bad, since there's not any real food in them. But, if that was the case, I'd expect more signs of scurvy and such. So, in conclusion, I suspect she was not a ghostbuster.

It's probably best not alienate ones primary audience...

It's been awhile since my last post, as I was reminded of by my family multiple times when I saw them. I was hoping that my 10 year old cousin (who, at this moment, I can't remember if I nicknamed before, so I'm going to leave it blank until the search function loads on my computer) would start her own blog and I could just link to it, because I'm lazy like that. She said she had nothing to write about. I think the musing of a 10 year old would probably be much more fascinating than this, if only because I remember at 9 years old, I spent most of my time writing stories about accidentally poisoning my teachers or highly dysfunctional families with well timed fatal accidents. I would have used an example from when I was 10, but I can't really remember what I thought at 10. I suspect I mainly thought, "Wow, I was a pretty effed up 9 year old, I should try to lay low for a couple of years."

My cousin with the forgotten nickname (or non-existent one) then suggested she would write a blog about me and the times she sees me, which was flattering. But I'm not sure how many people want to read a blog about how awesome I am at Scattergories. However, that is the blog I now plan on writing, because I'm really really good at Scattergories, even if those playing with me refuse to accept it. For example, under "Kind of Candy" starting with "D" I wrote "Delicious", which was highly disputed, because my family is full of jealousy over my ability to think outside their Scattergories box. The fact remains that there are 2 kinds of candy in my world: delicious and not delicious. Those that contest that delicious is not a kind of candy should be forced to eat the free candy from the Korean Grocery store that is all over my apartment (as you might have guessed, it's not delicious, because it would never survive living with me otherwise...by the way, please come eat my candy). Really, in the end, delicious is not only an acceptable kind of candy, it's the only kind that matters. Regardless, I love Scattergories, mainly for the fights. But don't tell my family, even though I'm beginning to suspect they're the only people still reading this, so they might still figure it out.

It's always disappointing to go to family events and realize that you have no anecdotes left because you've blogged them all. I guess it could encourage me to live more life, or at least lie more often, but instead I've allowed it to stop the blogging. For example, two weeks ago, what I imagine to be a felon, probably some sort of bank robber or serial killer, crashed on the road behind our apartment hopped the fence running from the cops. It was very exciting. Later, they had dogs searching. That was also exciting. But I did not blog it so that I would have something to talk about with my family that wasn't a repeat. I mean, I'm the type of person who will watch a good sitcom over and over again and still laugh because I'm simple and such, but I know that my parents will buy entire shows on DVD that I eventually steal forever, because once they've seen it once, it's all over. The point is, I don't think they appreciate my repeats very much.

I suppose I could just stay quiet in family situations, but I worry eventually I'll forget how to talk or my tongue will atrophy, and I do so love to talk. Maybe I could just spend a lot of time playing Shadow. If you do not know or remember what Shadow is, you might need to return to grade school. It usually begins with one child saying "Want to play shadow?" and then the other child repeating it, then it goes back and forth for an hour or two until the weaker child's head explodes. As an adult, it's much more fun, because the other person usually believes they're too mature for it, so you get to repeat a larger variety of statements, like, "What are you doing?" and "Please, for the love of God, just stop that." Well, I imagine it's more fun, I haven't actually tried it yet, because I'm fond of having friends. But family is different, because they have to keep dealing with you. That's why god gave us families, so that all our most annoying traits would have somewhere to flourish, without restraint. So, I might keep blogging, and then just play Shadow more often. But not during Scattergories, because that's serious time.

I've been racking up the happy songs during my brief hiatus, but I also forgot which ones I've already used. I should have kept a list. I've realized that any song about New York brings me joy. Examples include New York, New York; Empire State of Mind; NYC; and A Heart in New York. I've never actually been to New York, but I suspect that if I could make it there, I'd make it anywhere. For now, I'm yet to make it anywhere, but give me time, or maybe give me money, because that would also be useful.

Oh, my family also kept asking me how the novel is going. The answer is, I'm fond of empty internet promises, but I still might write it anyways. It will most likely be gibberish, especially since a month is quickly turning into only a week to finish it.

Is there anything illegal about plotting against yourself?

Since finishing school and deciding to defer board exams to February, I've been feeling a tremendous need for deadlines. I've realized that without clear, tangible goals, I end up actually looking at my life and trying to improve as a human being in ways that are not objectively measurable. I don't care for this. I much prefer my self-reflection to occur in short spurts, usually ending with the thought, "I'll take care of that when I have the time, but right now I need to focus on ______" (with "______", in most cases, being a trivial wheel-spinning like task that somehow makes me feel important).

I mean, I still have long term goals, like passing boards and generally being awesome, but, for now, they're not enough to fill the days. Getting a job is a short term goal to prevent starvation, but searching for one doesn't really feed my urge for productivity. I could probably blog more often again...but I won't (sorry Jennijen).

In general, I'm not an A type personality. If anything, I'm A/B. You know, just organized enough to piss off the slackers, but just lazy enough to irritate the hard-core overachievers. I like it this way, I makes me feel like my Yin and Yang are in balance (also, of course, because it maximizes irritation to others). But, now that I'm free of stress, my B side has been so overindulged that the A side is jumping out. I want to plan and control everything in my surroundings. If there is a problem, I will solve it, even if it's best left alone, or imaginary. Most are imaginary. It's difficult to solve imaginary problems, mainly because there is an infinite supply of imaginary obstacles. Plus, even once your solve it, there are just more imaginary problems right behind it. It's very tiring.

So, I'm going crazy because the A side of my personality is taking over, and, to be perfectly honest, I hate that bitch. But, not to worry, as always, I have a plan. And by I have a plan, I mean the side of my personality that I just outright slandered (Wait...libeled. Although this is all sort of talked out in my head as I write it down, so it's sort of like slander. Not really though. Wait, but if it's true that my A side is a bitch, then have I really done either? Why is life so hard?) has a plan. Well, many plans. So many plans that my A side won't know what hit it and will eventually calm down, allowing my B side to bask in the glory that is summer freedom.

The first, promise baking to anyone who crosses my path. Birthday? I got ya covered. Excessive studying? Let me feed that sugar craving. Trying to lose weight? Oh wait, we might have a problem, but do you want a cupcake anyways?

The second plan is to attempt to be a vegetarian again without starving to death. This plan was thwarted quickly by a friends birthday celebration at a Korean BBQ, where I ingested a good months worth of meat. I'm trying again and hoping I don't randomly come across a large stash of unclaimed steak. You know, because eating random meat you find on the street is always intelligent. Well, it might be, if you just saw it fall off a truck of a trusted meat distributor. Of course, you could probably trace it if that happened, and would need to return it to the proper authorities as a responsible and ethical citizen. Which leaves me as a vegetarian for the time being, unless offered free meat. Or bored and craving Korean BBQ.

The third (and last plan I will discuss here, as I have too many random plans flitting through my head to fully document) is to write a novel in a month. I know that November is apparently supposed to be the month for writing a novel in a month, but I'm going to be busy with other things in November, so why not now? Well, why not might be because I don't have a plot or characters or a setting, or really anything that could make a novel other than a vague sense of the tone I'd like. And even that I can't describe in words. But, I figure if I don't force myself to do it now, when will I force myself? The answer is never, which is probably a good answer, because, seriously, what's the point? However, in the interest of kicking my A personality back into submission, I will take on this task. You will most likely never see the results, well, not unless you are family or a close friend who I am willing to torture by forcing you to read a large number of jumbled words I tossed out in a month in an inane attempt to regain my sanity.

You know what I haven't done in a long time? Listed a happy song. Luckily, I've recently been obsessed with the song Tightrope by Janelle Monae, mainly because I can't listen to it without dancing like a crazy person, so my abs are getting really tight. Now I'm off to write stuff that is not this.

I'm back, sort of, for now, but probably not tomorrow or the next day

So, you may have thought that I'd forgotten about this blog. I have not, I have however, knowingly neglected it. It's not that I don't care about it anymore, it's just that it's summer, and I'm happy, and I'm starting to think all my best rants might be rooted in neurosis and generalized anxiety. I'm sure something will throw me off soon, and then we're back in business.

Last night, I copied some of my posts into I Write Like because apparently it's all the rage. My first result was Chuck Palahniuk, which was interesting since it wasn't even on of the ones where I referenced Fight Club. Those came up as Cory Doctorow. I don't really know who that is, but I think Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom is an awesome title.

I've put in a bunch of different posts and gotten at least 10 different people that I write like. I'm not sure that this site is incredibly accurate. Or maybe I just don't really write like anyone, but it has to spit out a name, so it does so at random. That's probably for the best, since I don't want to be the person that broke I Write Like. I feel that the Twitter community would take vengeance swiftly.

One might also theorize that each post comes up with a different author because my writing is so erratic and inconsistent. I don't care for this theory, so please stop that.

Banana brain goo

The world is too hot to blog. My brain is actually in a puddle on the floor, but I scooped it up a few days ago to write the following, and then didn't publish it, but now I will, because, otherwise nothing is going to posted for a very long time if summer keeps this up. I would like to visit Antarctica and hang out with the penguins. I mentioned this to a friend, and they said, you know it's winter there, right? And I do. I'd wanted to say Alaska and hang out with the polar bears, but the 24 hour days are probably as bad as the heat.

The other day, I went to Canada's Wonderland with my friend Nicola Tupperstein who was visiting from out west. We ate foot long hot dogs and rode all the roller coasters, except for the boring ones. Then we had a cookiewich. Really, it was a recipe for indigestion, but totally worth it.

As we were walking through a semi-secluded path where it was possible to hear the various screams coming from the rides around us, Nicola speculated that this would be a great place to hurt someone, because no one would hear the screams. Sometimes, when people live far away, you can forget exactly how terrifying they are. In case you're wondering, she did not kill me.

We also saw some teens who had won a human-sized stuffed banana and were trying to put it in their not-human-sized backpack. It wasn't working. I could have predicted that, which is why I only try to win obscenely large stuffed animals at the end of the day. Nicola asked what one would do with such a banana. "Well," I said, "It will probably sit around their bedroom for awhile, until they go to university, where it will be brought out while drinking and humped periodically. Then, eventually, it will be trashed by his future wife." I had that banana's number, but I think that's because I've always been skilled at reading bananas.

I call it "Nice Cream"

I forgot until I posted yesterday that writing stuff is kind of fun. Well, it's fun-like, making it a good substitute for actual fun. Like eating protein powder, berries and soy milk all blended together instead of ice cream, which I also did last night. Currently, my life has plenty of fun, but less fun-like activities, so perhaps I'll try to blog more. Blog, and study random pharmaceuticals.

Also, I need to get a job, which can also be fun-like, which is why they make all those internet games and iPhone apps based on menial labour. Once, I was playing a lot of Diner Dash and decided to try to get a job at the Keg. I figured that my Diner Dash skills would transfer, and also, that it would be super fun, because, how could it not be? Unfortunately, at the time, I was a pretty serious vegan. This posed a problem, because I'm a bad liar, except for the rare times when I'm a really, really good liar. Being the sole herbivore in a room full of steak lovers was not one of those times.

Somehow, I managed to sneak my way through the initial recruiting interview to make it to the group interview. I quickly realized I was out of my league when they told us the mission statement, or maybe it was the vision statement, either way it was something similar to: "create an environment where steak lovers and their families can feel free to be themselves". At this point, my head screamed, "Interloper!" I was afraid my eyes would get too shifty, so I tried to stare at one spot until I realized staring is also a little suspicious and started carefully timing eye movements to avoid shifty or staring eyes. There's nothing like meticulously orchestrated eye movement to tell those around you, "I eat meat and I'm not an interloper at all. Please don't hurt me, it's hard to get sufficient protein so my muscles are quite weak and you will break me easily."

The end of this story is the part where I did not get the job, which is probably best because I couldn't have kept it up for long before I broke down and told them the truth. There probably would have been a lot of tears, and dramatic background music. Then a commercial break prior to me actually revealing my veganness (As well as playing excessive Diner Dash in my time, I've also watched far too much reality tv). This time things will go better, because I eat everything now. As long as I don't apply to anywhere with a "We steal candy from children" mission statement, I'll be fine. Even then, kids really don't need all that candy anyways. We are facing an obesity epidemic.

Alive and unarrested

Wow, once you're not posting everyday it's really hard to keep it up. It's also easy when it's summer and there are many fun things happening that don't involve me writing random stuff on my computer.

On the weekend, Yelsel and I went on an adventure. We weren't quite sure what to do, but we thought we'd head towards downtown, but not into downtown, because that would be stupid. Towards downtown was probably also stupid, in hindsight. But when you can't see the news about burning cop cars, you don't realize exactly how unintelligent it is to travel towards them. However, we were fine. The worst thing we saw were a lot of cops who did not randomly arrest us and some protesters that we thought were screaming for ice cream, but then realized they weren't, which made more sense, since ice cream is rarely a hot topic for anyone but the lactose intolerant. We also got Ethiopian food and realized that the threat of random violence or arrest really leads to fast service. It probably would have been a good time to get the coffee (they have coffee, it's awesome but it takes forever on a normal day because they just have one pot that they use for everyone...now you're up to speed on the coffee comment).

When we started getting full, Yelsel started making shapes with her injera bread. The following picture was explained to me like this:

Yels: "It's a triceratops skull."

Sharon: "It doesn't look like a triceratops."

Yels: "No, that's because it's a triceratops skull. God, seriously."

You be the judge.


Then she ate it, because she got distracted and was sad because she wanted to save it until the end. Then I laughed, because her sadness was funny to me.

Earlier in the day, we stopped in a random coffee place in Yorkville. Apparently it wasn't actually so random, and seems to be well know as the place where all the old white people in Toronto go to be unhappy with each other. Well, at least seemed well known to all the old angry patrons. We, the young, relatively happy customers clearly missed the memo. I had a woman glare at me because my elbows were on the table. Then she sat quietly with her husband, silently shooting arrows at him with her eyes, while he stared back wishing for death. Whose death, I could not tell. I'm not sure it mattered to him, as long as he escaped somehow. It was awkward. I won't be going back there, well, at least not for 30-40 years.

Earthquake!

It's been a week and I'm back on the Facebook. It wasn't so bad going without it, I tweeted periodically to help ease the transition, because, I believe, Twitter is to Facebook what methadone is to heroin. Today was a good day to get back on, since earlier today I was in the washroom and the door started making a racket. At first I assumed it was my roommate Oysters being a jerk, even though there is no past history of it, or reason to suspect it. Then I noticed that the water in the toilet bowel was splashing and thought, "That's odd". I came out to ask Oysters if she'd noticed anything. "Did everything just start shaking, or did I just start getting dizzy spells?" she asked. So I pointed out that the light above her was still shaking and said, "Do you think that might have been an earthquake?"

As most of you are probably already aware, it was an earthquake. But at the time I was quite confused, having grown up in Ontario, the only reason for the ground to shake is because of the constant construction work which I'm sure sustains our economy since it never seems to end. Well, either that or there is actually a project called "Follow Sharon throughout her life with irritating construction." Why would this exist? I do not know, which is why I assume it's a problem throughout the province, and not just in my general vicinity.

Regardless, what I'm trying to say is that "earthquake" is not the first thing I think when the ground starts shaking, even if it should be. However, I was concerned about the potential that construction work could have caused toilet splashing, so I got on the internet to search for earthquake related news. But even the internet is not that fast, and I could find nothing. Until I signed onto Facebook, where every single status included the word "earthquake", usually accompanied by words like "what?!?!?", "apocalypse", or "missed :(". I know that Facebook is probably not equivalent to a seismograph, but it was good enough for me to know it wasn't construction. And that is the story of why I will never leave Facebook again (even though it is mostly evil.)

Happy song: I'm going to go for a long-shot and choose Helpless by Neil Young. Yes, I am aware that the chorus is mainly made up of repetition of the word "helpless" which is rarely misinterpretted as a happy word. But, to be honest, usually my best turnarounds in mood happen when I finally admit that I'm helpless to change things and finally begin to accept where I am. Usually that's followed by an epiphany about what I do have control of in the situation and, voila, helpful, not helpless. And that is why I think Helpless qualifies as a happy song. Don't fight me on this one.

In case you thought I forgot you

Since the last time I posted, I've been enjoying my life free of obligation to write for you. I was in a drunken spelling bee. I don't remember much and we weren't keeping score, but I imagine I probably won. Well, by won, I mean I won the knowledge that spell check has destroyed any ability to spell that I may or may not have possessed in the past. Then we lost at ultimate Frisbee. I'm blaming it on the fact we didn't devote any time to a montage. Also that half the team didn't show up. But it was probably mostly the montage thing.

Anyways, non of those things were exciting enough to blog about at the time, but I figured since it's been a few days, some people might be worried I'd just never blog again and I should probably post something to prove I'm not dead or suddenly stricken illiterate.

Today, I read a bunch of stuff about snakes. It reconfirmed the fact that I don't like snakes, even though once I took an online quiz called, "What animal are you?" and turned out to be a snake. I know those things are carefully validated, but I just can't accept it. First, I don't bite people often. Second, I don't have venom. Third, I'm afraid of bears. Snakes are not afraid of bears; snakes scoff at bears because their terrifying claws are no match for sharp teeth and venom.

I remember learning in undergrad that there are some snakes that can live for over a year without food. So, when walking into a creepy basement where it seems like a snake might be dwelling, never think, "It's okay, there's nothing for it to eat down here, it can't possibly have survived until now," because it can and there is something to eat, and that something is you. Actually, by the time you reached that part of the sentence, it already did. You didn't notice because the glow of the monitor has hidden the fact that you are now just a human silhouette inside a formerly hungry snake. Wait, by "I learned it in undergrad", I might mean in a nightmare I had a couple of days ago, I'm not quite certain.

Snake nightmares are not uncommon to me. Usually I'm armed with a gun, which is just plain frustrating because I have no aim and it's a friggin' snake. Even when I hit the snake, it will usually just make it angry, increasing the speed with which it bites. My brain sure knows how to make dreams that will torture me.

Happy song: A Boy Named Sue by Johnny Cash, because I like the part where nobody dies even though his father clearly sucks.

Apple did not endorse this blog

Within 12 hours of my decision to stop blogging everyday, I was given a story so perfect that I had to tell you about it today. Last night I went over to my friend Sparrow's house. On the walk from the bus to her house, I ran into 2 black cats. One was sitting on what I assumed to be its front lawn. As I passed, I thought, "Please don't cross my path, please don't cross my path, Thank you!" The second one was more risky. It was trotting along the edge of the sidewalk in front of me. Then it sort of veered as if it were going to cross my path, then veered back off the sidewalk, leaving me free and clear. I thanked that cat out loud, because I'm fond of not having bad luck for the day.

Then I wondered if having two black cats nearly cross your path but then not cross it is a sign of good luck. It seems reasonable that if you teeter on the edge of danger but don't fall in, you should be rewarded. Like how if a child nearly drowns, people will usually give them lots of candy when they don't. Narrowly avoiding bad luck causing events should result in cosmic candy, or so I theorize.

I would probably have thought more about it, but by this point I had reached Sparrow's. There, I proceeded to drink a number of Pomtinis, because I figured if I'm going to drink a delicious summer cooler, I should choose one that I can almost delude myself into thinking is healthy. It is full of pomegranate, which, I think should offset some of the sugar and alcohol. Actually, I don't think that, but while drinking them I try to imagine it does. Anyways, good times were had, and I considered sleeping over in their hammock, which was very comfortable and fun to cocoon in, but in the end decided to take the long bus ride home to my own wonderful bed.

Once I reached my stop, I didn't realize how tipsy I still was and nearly fell down the stairs as the bus braked. In the midst of that, I dropped my poor little iPod. Actually, it was kind of propelled forward with inertia. "Wow," I thought when I picked it up intact and working, "I'm the luckiest klutz alive." This statement is very true.

I got my tipsy self home and went on Skype, because I realized I was actually up late enough that Shamus might be on. We were still chatting when I decided to step out on the balcony for a minute. I was listening to my iPod at the time, and I'm not sure what happened exactly, but I somehow dropped it. It wasn't off the balcony at the time though, so I thought it must have just fallen at my feet. However, all I could see was my earphone cord attached to nothing.

I found a flashlight and looked, but there was nothing. I did note a small crack between the railing and the ground through which a perfectly vertical iPod could easily fall. Then I freaked out, obviously, because my iPod is my best friend. At first, I just needed an iPod because I like to have music with me all the time to keep me sane. Now, I need it because every random thought I have is written in it until I think it's a stupid thought and delete it. It's like an extension of my brain, which is useful, due to the memory issues. So, in essence, I had just dropped a portion of my brain 13 floors. As you can probably imagine, it hurt.

It was 2am by this point, but I had to go look, because when you're best friend drops off a balcony, you look for them even though you know what you find might not be pretty. I just needed closure. I wandered out, fearful of random 2am serial killers who, I imagine, just sit outside building waiting for just such an event to grab you. I think the serial killers I imagine are much more passive than those in most horror movies. Anyways, no serial killer found me, but I did find my iPod, lying face down in the grass. It looked so small. Then, I picked it up and it didn't even have a scratch.

I think it is important to also note at this point that the protective case I bought for it was only $5, because, despite the knowledge that I might be one of the worst klutzes in history, I just couldn't spend more than that. Pretty much it's just a flimsy piece of plastic that loosely fits around the corners and usually slightly cushions the fall when I drop it a foot or two, not a hundred feet. The funniest part of this is that I nearly didn't buy an iPod touch because I knew that I was a klutz and that as much as I would try not to, I would drop it. Repeatedly. At this point I clearly wasn't aware that they are magic.

Happy song is Hallelujah the kd lang version from Hymns of the 49th Parallel, because that's the song I was listening to when I dropped my poor little iPod, and it's the song I finished listening to after it was back in my embrace.

It's all for the best...

It's official. I can't do the daily blogging anymore. It's become a chore. I know I just said a few posts ago that I'd do it for a year, but it's just going to get worse and worse everyday. Soon I'll be blogging about my dental hygiene routine and no one will be amused, least of all me. What I can promise you is that if I'm writing, it's because I want to write now, so it will probably be much more enjoyable, even if less frequent.

So, I didn't make it a year. But I did make it 2 months, which I think is pretty good. Who knows, maybe now that I'm not forcing myself anymore, I might just naturally want to write something everyday. Probably not though. However, I did have an excellent conversation today, which I will probably blog tomorrow if I'm in the blogging mood again. It could just be coffee deprivation, I'm not sure. I do love coffee.

Goodbye forever (by which I mean, probably until tomorrow, or maybe the day after, it's hard to tell now).

Ouch.

I love the early summer, but I hate the random migraines. Also, detoxes are hard, mainly because of the cheating and then the guilt associated with the cheating. I managed to make it until 3:30 without a coffee, which is impressive, I think. Then I gave in, obviously, or I wouldn't have chosen the time 3:30, instead I would have said, "I managed to make it until now", or "I managed to make it until 21 days from now." But I didn't, I caved at 3:30. It was around the point where life lost all meaning without coffee in it. Tomorrow, I will try again, although I have a pre-detox planned "coffee" date with Vincenzo, so we'll see if I can opt for the tea.

So, as I may have alluded to, I have a migraine, so I'm going to finish this up quickly. Happy song: A Beautiful Mess by Jason Mraz, because I have a migraine, and it's quiet. I like to pretend I can dance contemporary when I listen to it. Then I was watching So You Think You Can Dance, and they totally choreographed a contemporary piece to it. I felt validated. I still can't dance contemporary though, except for that thing where they run randomly then stop sharply. I'm good at running and stopping. It's one of my many skills.

Detox

Today, I made a decision. Actually I made many decisions, but there was one decision that began it. I was cleaning up the kitchen and, while putting things away, noted that my coffee was getting a little low and thought, "I should probably pick some up." Then I thought, "Wait, no. How about I don't."

This is not abnormal for me. Periodically, I realize that I am far too dependent on coffee for happiness, actually, not even so much happiness as not depression, and I give it up until life gets so horrible that I just can't do it anymore. Last time I gave it up for any significant length of time was the fall. I did fine until I decided to write a play and realized that excessive caffeine is really the key to my sense of humour. Or, at least it's the key when I'm trying to force it out over a 6 hour writing period alone in my apartment, with only my inane thoughts to keep me company.

Some say I don't need it, but I think those might be the people who have never seen me without it. Regardless, once I'm done the small amount of coffee I have left, there is no more coffee in my life for a bit. Unless I get my dream pre-board exam Starbucks job. Then all bets are off.

It seems that, usually, once I decide to clean up one bad habit, I figure that all the other ones might as well go with it. Why suffer one withdrawal after another when I can combine them into one massively horrible withdrawal? So, I decided that once I was done all the dairy, wheat and various junk foods that I have, they were out for good as well. Well, for a few weeks at least, then, perhaps, in moderation.

Then came the big decision. Admitting that I needed to give up the worst addiction of all: Facebook. I don't know how I became such an addict, but it crept up on me. One day I was having trouble finding a profile pic, the next I was logging in everytime my iPod found a wireless connection just to see if anything had changed in the 5 minutes since I last checked. At some point, it must have been more of a thrill than it is now, and I'm constantly looking for that next good hit, but it never comes. It's much worse than my coffee addiction, because at least with coffee I have the delicious coffee goodness. Facebook contains no deliciousness, just disappointment. I don't even know what I'm looking for anymore, but whatever it is, it's not to be found there.

So, I've decided that it's time to give up Facebook. Just for a week, I don't want to do anything too crazy. I did delete the Facebook app off my iPod, since it's too easy to enter the entire Facebook world with a simple button press, slide, touch combo. And I deleted my bookmark. As you can see, this is serious. Oh, also, I deactivated G-mail chat, because I figured I needed a general break from internet based socializing, just in case anyone is wondering where I am (or, I just blocked you and only you and this is a clever ruse to convince you it's not personal...but it is. Then again, probably not.)

The reason I tell you all of this is that I fear my mental state is going to decay quite rapidly over the next few days without coffee, delicious deliciousness or Facebook. For the blog, a decaying mental state can really go either way, it's hard to say. I suspect without coffee it will go in the bad way, although there is a chance I might actually be able to consume enough green tea to make up for it. Actually, that's a lie, I'll die of kidney failure long before I'll be able to drink enough green tea to replace my precious, precious coffee. I'm totally screwed.

Okay, it's officially been 1/2 an hour since this decision was made. I think I'm over the hardest part. I think detox is like dealing with death, you totally go through the 5 stages of grieving. Obviously, right now, I'm in denial. Except, with my admitting that I am in denial, I must have moved onto something else. The point is, as long as I can limit bargaining, I'll be good, since when I'm bargaining with myself, the side of me that wants coffee and Facebook usually wins pretty quickly, mainly because she fights dirty. Tomorrow, anger.

Happy song: Overkill by Colin Hay. I don't think it's actually happy in and of itself, but it always feels like a good song for when I'm trying to let go of things that need letting go of, like delicious coffee and empty Facebook use. Also, it makes me think of Scrubs and cadavers, which are both naturally hilarious. Actually, maybe a good Scrubs marathon is just what I need to get me through the first few days, or, at the very least, make me think my random detox hallucinations are a perfectly normal reaction to life. Oh no, the twitches have started. God help me.

Thick smoothie and no hot water

You know that a day is going to be unproductive when your morning smoothie is too thick to drink, so you have to get a spoon and eat it like ice cream. On a positive note, it tasted like strawberries and whipped cream. But it took me a good hour to eat. I'm slow in the morning with things that aren't liquid. This is why I don't often have eggs, because, when I do, I won't begin the non-breakfast part of my day until noon. Also because they are too often squishy. I like my food viscous, not squishy.

After my solid smoothie breakfast I realized that the hot water was off all day, something that I'd known earlier, which was why I'd gotten up early, but subsequently forgotten. This left me full of very thick smoothie and covered in everything I'd encountered in the last 24 hours, which wasn't nothing, since I walk past some pretty serious construction twice a day. Also, I like to roll in various things. "Crap," I thought, "I can't go through my life without showering." You see, I'm fond of the little things in life, like standing less than 3 feet from people, and not having to worry whether they're downwind from me.

I quickly made up a scheme. I would traverse to school and shower in the gym washrooms. But, in order to do that, I would need to walk through the world, unshowered, risking potential embarrassment en route. If you ever find yourself in this predicament, the best thing that I think you can do is to channel your inner hippy. So, as I walked to school I listened to Woodstock (the CSNY version, although Joni Mitchell would have worked equally well), and thought about all the hippie things I've done in my life. Like how I went tree planting for a summer, where I was able to not shower for days at a time so that I could avoid dealing with the co-ed showers. Or the time I was in the pit band for the high school musical, Groovy, and had to wear a yellow and orange tie-dye shirt and I bitched and bitched. I think it was fair, because gingers are discriminated against enough without being forced to wear orange. Also, how I know a lot about herbs and the like. These thoughts got me to a shower, and the rest of the story is boring and involves soap. Then the rest of the day was uneventful, until now, when I wrote this very blog. You might have thought it was unproductive based on the intro. But you'd be wrong: it was moderately productive.

Happy song: I'm lazy, so I'll say Woodstock, since I'm already thinking of it, except this time it has to be the CSNY version because the Joni Mitchell version, although awesome, is a little creepy. I tried to find a link for the Joni Mitchell version, but could only find live videos, which don't really live up to the creepiness of the Ladies of the Canyon version. So you'll just have to take my word for it, or do a search with actual effort for it. What can I say about Woodstock though? It speaks to my modern day hippie soul. My modern day likes-to-shower hippie soul. And when my hippie soul is happy, I'm happy.

Why must all cute things be so fast?

On my walk home today, I saw a baby bunny. This made me happy, because it is not often that I get to think the phrase, "Holy crap, baby bunny". In general, this is also followed by an internal happy dance. It would be external, except that my immediate response is to freeze up so as not to frighten away the baby bunny before I can convince it to be BFFs forever and ever. I also try to avoid frightening it away so that I can take a picture of it to remember it by if it doesn't buy the BFF bait. Really, I should carry around carrots, because I've noticed carrots are worth a lot more to baby bunnies than the offer of being their friend.

Unfortunately, my potential baby bunny friend scampered away before I could get any photographic evidence of our brief encounter, so all I have are the sweet, sweet memories. Me seeing it. Me thinking, "Holy crap, baby bunny". It hopping away while I got out my camera. Sigh, so many memories. It was probably smart for it to leave, since its baby bunny mind probably can't differentiate between me, a human, versus a hawk, bear, or hawk-bear hybrid (for which I have coined the term "Bawk"). That is how baby bunnies survive to become big bunnies who copulate far too much, allowing for me to have baby bunny treats on my walk home to brighten my day. This is the point where you are free to sing Circle of Life in your head. Okay, now stop because I'm still writing and you should be fully enthralled in this, not Elton John. Elton John can get his own time when I'm done, and I will fully support the two of you at that point.

The baby bunny is just one of many things that have gone right in my life. Yesterday I had my 1st ultimate Frisbee win. It was also the first time that I managed to assist in anything positive happening for my team, thus finally making me a valuable member of society after so many years of freeloading. Next week is play-offs. We are close to the bottom. That's okay though, because if there is anything I've learned from TV movies, it's that those who win early on are (a) usually massive jerks and (b) doomed to embarrassing defeat when the so called losers get their crap together. I'm not certain that we are the so called losers in this scenario, since we don't even seem to have plans for a good training montage, but the key thing is that we're not the skilled but evil team, and that is something to be grateful for.

The one thing I'm worried about is that my devotion to my team and my devotion to being a tame groupie might be tested if our game ends up being scheduled at the same time as the "I Only Date Astronauts" show (8pm at Bread and Circus, next Sunday, June 20...tell your friends). If this happens, I will likely die from my head exploding when I can't decide between the opportunity for a good playoff montage and the chance to call people out on the lack of dancing monkeys (or, alternatively, be amazed and disturbed by the presence of dancing monkeys).

Happy music: Make it Mine by Jason Mraz. This is the song that makes me delusional enough to think it's a good idea to write a play in a month, all the while living the life of a student with no free time. I also like to listen to it when life seems a little busy or mundane or both ("buzdane"...coined it!), because it makes me remember that life is still going on in and around the busy and mundane.

Is life weirder than dreams?

Last night I dreamed that I was at some sort of camp. What was distinctive about this camp is that at dinner, we were told that the only edible thing was the shrimp sandwiches. But then, when we got to the food, the room was completely dark, but it was still possible to make out that the only food was barrel after barrel of olives.

So, I guess, instead of eating, we decided to take a washroom break. The washroom was located about 100 meters from the main building, and people would sprint to and from it in terror. I couldn't figure it out. But, then, I did figure it out. Just off the path to the washroom was a live bear. Actually, 3 live bears, but 2 were babies. As people ran from the washroom, they would jump at them, but, luckily, the small slope between their location and the path seemed to give them trouble, so no one was eaten.

Then, as I further observed the situation, there was a large box beside the bear the had a picture of the bear on the side and writing that said "Security bears for hire". So, the impression I got is that this camp had specifically hired a bear to eat children who have to use the bathroom. The dream continued, and eventually, somehow, I was chillin' out with the bear. Well, actually, by this point I'd realized it wasn't a bear at all, but a guy in a bear suit. The baby bears were real though, which made it seem like a risky job for him. When I asked him how much he made, he said $100 a day. That seemed like a pretty sweet pay for hanging out in a bear suit trying to make campers pee their pants. Then I woke up, but I'm still thinking of seeing if such a job exists, and if so, applying for it. If not, maybe the point of the dream was that I'm supposed to start such a company.

My waking life is often as strange as fake-bear dreams. I was in the store today and heard Justin Bieber playing. After a second, I realized it was a cell phone, but could not seen any teenyboppers around, so wasn't sure where it could be coming from. A few seconds later, my question was resolved as a middle aged Asian man answered his phone. I thought maybe it could have been a trick played on him by someone cruel, but, if it was, he was quite skilled at playing it off, because there was not an ounce of shame or embarrassment in his face. Luckily, he was not wearing a bear suit or I would have feared for my mental health.

Happy song: The Show by Lenka. Once I was sad and Yelsel happened to be playing it, then I wasn't so sad. That seems like the very definition of a happy song. The only concern is that I'm not certain that them message of the song isn't that life is actually one big reality TV show. When Survivor was still at the height of its fame, I had a dream I was the likable one. You know, the one that all the fans like but will never win because they're too nice. I'm afraid if life is actually a reality TV show, I wouldn't fare so well, because I try to be nice, but like most humans, I'm human. If this is a reality TV show, I think I'll try to get in good with the editors, because that's the real key. Other than the series of reality show concerns arising from listening to it, it's definitely a happy song.

My room is finally clean and I'm hoping my life will follow suit

Today I spent the day cleaning, except for the part of the day I spent eating breakfast with my friend Mizziann Chewbacca (the names are getting really hard), the part where I was watching soccer and the part when I was doing the Waka waka dance in my room, while trying not to associate it with Fozzie bear. The point is, I did a lot of cleaning, but it was worth it, because I now feel like I'm living like the human that I claim to be, instead of some sort of rodent. The other point is that nothing at all of significance happened today, which makes it difficult to write a blog.

Luckily, over the past few months I've been periodically take pictures thinking, "This is good blog material". They aren't. But, on a day like today, I'll take anything, so here we go.

1. Squished Muffin

This is a wholegrain blueberry muffin I bought and then put in my bag, then squished it. Somehow I thought it was picture worthy and that a blog would write itself around it. I was wrong. It's just a squished muffin. It was delicious though.

2. Substitution policy
This was the most intense substitution policy I'd ever seen. Somehow, I don't think they like substitutions. However, the food was not that great and the waiter reminded me of a robot, so I think they probably shouldn't be so definite about the substitutions, because they're just not that awesome. I don't have much more to say than that, hence me not blogging it when I first took the picture.

3. Very strong/hungry squirrel


This squirrel had 3/4 of a Tim Hortons roll that it carried from who knows where. That struck me as odd and impressive. It was probably the greatest day of that squirrels life. However, that's way too many carbohydrates for a little squirrel, so he's probably increasing his risk of future insulin resistance and type II diabetes mellitus. So, actually, it's a little sad. But then again, free roll, so good job little guy.

Well, that's what I got today. Happy song is Waka waka (It's time for Africa) by Shakira, because my roommate Oysters O'Jomand enjoys it greatly and it's pretty catchy. I'm pretty sure she's dancing the Waka waka dance in her room all the time. That amuses me, hence the happy song status.

...Fishy? (Sorry, I can't remember the title)

In the last couple weeks, I've become concerned about the whole "blogging every day" plan. I thought that it was impossible to run out of thoughts, and I was right. However, it is easy to forget bloggable thoughts by the end of the day, leaving me with mediocre thoughts like "well, I ate a hot dog a couple days ago, people probably want to know about that." So I blog them, all the while knowing that they don't, but that I have nothing else to write because of the short term memory issues.

It's sad that yesterday I wrote all about my dreams of a poor lobotomized pet fish, only to realize today that I'm already living his life, except not a fish, which is good because I live in air, so were I a fish, I'd be both forgetful and dead, which would be significantly worse than my current situation. The point is, my memory is so bad that while writing about fish memory, it didn't even trigger me to think that maybe I'm already a lobotomized fish. Mostly it made me think, "Fishys are fun". Then it made me think, "Crap, what was I just writing. Wait, who cares? Happy song."

So about the blogging everyday. I thought that maybe the response I needed was to stop the everyday blogging, but then I thought, "No Sharon, you're not a quitter, except for when you are, but you aren't right now." But what I do think I need to do is change my goal from "...until untimely death" to "...for 1 year". I think 1 year is reasonable. Then I can space it out, if I so choose. Obviously it's with the stipulation that if untimely death occurs first, I'll probably stop then and not wait for the year.

I think it's okay to change the rules at this point. It's like when I was a teen and I would say, "I'm never going to drink, or at least I don't think I will at this point, but in the future, I might change my mind." I really did say this once to my grandparents, who, I like to imagine, respected my absolute lack of resolve. I think it's fair though, I don't need to make decisions for future Sharon, she can make her own decisions. It's not like you see her making choices for me. If past Sharons got to call all the shots for future Sharons, all the power would be in infant Sharon's hands, and I would probably wander through life putting anything within reach in my mouth and still wear a diaper for convenience. But I don't, because that would be ridiculous. The point is, I won't blog forever either, just because 27 year old Sharon thought that would be a bright idea. I will try for the year though, because goals are fun.

Speaking of goals, my goal today is to clean my stupid room, but I'm not posting another picture because of the embarrassment. I will, however, promise myself that if I don't clean it tonight I'll post a picture tomorrow to shame myself into doing it. I suspect life would be easier if I didn't have to be a sneaky parent to myself. Also, it would be easier with a clean room. I also might have more crayon drawings then, because messy rooms inhibit crayon drawings. I would explain the mechanism, but actually, I won't.

Happy song...Don't Forget, by Brett Dennen. It got me through the fall, when I was so busy that I was generally concerned about passing out in the street on my walk home (I didn't though, which was good). I like to imagine that I'm singing it to myself, because as much as it feels great to have other people believe in me, it's not a sufficient replacement for me doing it for myself. I suggest you do the same.

Apparently sometimes I don't title things, but then I do

I hate public transit because of the rage it inspires in me, but I also like it because it gets me places, like the zoo. Actually, I've never taken the bus to the zoo because it seems like it would take a very long time, but I like knowing that should I need to, I can. Regardless, back to the rage. For the most part, it's not frustration with public transit itself, except for the times I run into mean bus drivers and the like. It's all about the obstacles I inevitably encounter on the way the second I want to use it to get anywhere on time. Like if I decide to cut through the mall to go to the bank for money to buy tokens, then it is guaranteed that two very stationary people will stand in front of me side by side on the escalator. Even as I stomp behind them to try to get their attention, my heels clanging on the metal grates, they don't ever think to move, and then when I make my way down to the subway, I can just see it pulling away as I get to the bottom. Then all I can think about for the rest of the day is how those escalator people made me late.

Today, my irritation was with an old man on the street and a woman with a stroller. Then I thought I might be evil. But then I thought, no, they deserve to have me screaming at them in my head. If they can't keep up, they shouldn't be in the game. What game, you might ask? And, if you are asking that, you should probably get out of it too, because I want to win and you're holding me up.

To calm the rage, I went out for dinner with my friend Sparrow Goslin. We went to find dessert at this random cafe because it had a name that made us go. I'm going to be secret about the alluring name because it might be a future surprise for someone else. Could it be you? Probably not, so don't get your hopes up. My cake had a cream puff swan, and I ate the neck first. Later, I felt sick, and I'm pretty sure that, rather than being because of the excessive sugar consumption, it was because the cream puff swan was trying to peck its way out.
We sat beside a big fishtank, which was risky since we'd just eaten sushi, and you know they can tell. This tank had a very large fish, which I'm sure would have eaten us right away if it weren't for the small bit of glass protecting us. If I'd fallen in the tank (I'm not sure how you fall in a household fishtank, but I'm sure it happens all the time), I'd have be gone before you could say "Hey, look at that crazy cream puff swan!"

Sparrow thought it would be cruel to have such a large fish in such a small tank. She might have had a point, he did have to make a three point turn every time he turned around. I think that could be easily remedied by lobotomizing the fish when you first get it to eliminate his memory. That way, each trip across the tank will seem like a new adventure to him. He might forget how to three point turn and break himself, but he'll forget what it was like to not be broken pretty fast, and thus won't even notice it. It'll be like Memento, but with fish. Actually, didn't that movie start with murder and end with more murder? That guy didn't live a very good life at all. Now I'm kind of worried about my amnesiac fishy. Glad I thought this one through first.

Happy song: And Your Bird Can Sing by The Beatles. Really, I coudn't think of a song today and just started scrolling through my music, so it pretty much won out because it starts with an "A". But it's also pretty cheery for a song that's pretty much like "Screw you. I don't care if you have a bird; I still think you kind of suck, you jerk." That's me paraphrasing. But I like to think I usually paraphrase pretty accurately. Anyways, as someone who has never owned a bird, I appreciate the sentiment, so it gets to be happy song; even though it definitely has, at the very least, irritated undertones. Oh, but I would get rid of the part where they say they'll be around if the bird owning person changes their mind, because, seriously, I don't care if they get bored of their bird, I'm still worried about various bird related diseases I could contract from them.

Tired.

Today I decided to tackle something that I've been putting off, and that was the construction of my new dresser that I picked up with my friend Jennijen Newnew on Monday. Well, not so much picked up as gradually shuffled off the shelf onto a cart, and then from the cart to her car. And she pushed the cart, because I decided to buy a 50 cent hot dog but wanted to finish it quickly in case we ran into anyone I knew. I know it's not real food, but, seriously, 50 cents.

One thing I like about the Ikea cafeteria is how they present things as deals that aren't. Like, 2 hot dogs for $1 is a specific listing. Or 2 hot dogs and a drink ($1 on its own) for just $2. Even with basic math skills under my belt, I still find these offers tempting, as would anyone.

Anyways, eventually I shuffled the box to my apartment where I emptied it and then left it to sit until I had time. All the while, my old dresser continued its decent towards trash. I was bitter today when the weather decided to take a turn for the worst, since I was depending on not having to open any drawers containing warmer clothes, because I was pretty sure opening them would compromise basic structural stability, possibly leading to a chain reaction that would bring down the whole building. Did I say the whole building? I meant world. You should all be thankful that the weathers been pretty good lately.

So, today I spent 4 hours building a dresser. It wouldn't have taken quite so long were it not for the necessity for frequent mental health breaks. Ikea always seems like a good idea when you're eating cheap non-food, but like a very bad idea when you're constructing/living with the results. However, I survived without any major injuries or aneurysms, but I'm pretty tired and I think a rib is out. I'm pretty sure the rib is not due to the furniture building though, but just from life. I just wanted to throw it out there in case someone reading this wants to fix me tomorrow, perhaps someone who has been begging for a shout-out?

Song that is happy. Moving Right Along from The Muppet Movie. It's Shamus' favourite vacation song, and just generally a song that I like. I like it even though it's 50% bear, so you must imagine that it's pretty friggin' good.

Yet another bear free gift

Today I learned a new lesson: The day that you receive notice of a package from a friend is not the day to decide it's finally safe to wear non-clear mascara. Byla, my Yellowknifian friend, had warned me that I should be expecting something, so I was sufficiently amped. After I picked it up, I spent the walk home thinking about what it might be. I don't know much about Yellowknife and what can be found there. I often wonder if the souvenir shops sell a lot of yellow knives, or if that is too obvious. It seems it would be dangerous for public relations, you know, due to the likelihood of the former souvenir becoming key evidence for the prosecution.

I didn't think Byla mailed me a knife though, if only because she seems smart enough not to send sharp things in the mail. Then I thought, crap, what if she sent a bear. I do often mock her very cold hometown, and maybe I went too far at some point, so she jacked a bear up with Fluoroquinolones and sent it to maul me just when I'm most defenseless (that being while opening an exciting package). That seems like a completely appropriate response to one too many igloo jokes, you know, the attempted murder. I realized though that, were it a bear, it was most likely dead from starvation due to the unexpectedly long transit time, so I would probably be okay, and thought, "Haha, foiled again, Byla Rong." You have to get up pretty early in the morning to kill me with a tiny bear. Or at least spring for a courier. Then it dawned on me that Byla would have been smart enough to pay the extra expense if she'd already gone to the trouble to create an adorably small murder machine.

If not a bear, then what? Well, the only other Yellowknife thing I could think of was ice. But the package was not as wet or cold as I would expect were it ice. Maybe the post office was nice enough to dry it off for me, but then, why was it so heavy still, like it contained something other than ice that had melted and then carefully dried off?

By this point in my train of thought, I was home and already grabbing random sharp things that I thought might open a package and thinking how useful it would be for future packages if it contained a yellow knife. Once I finally got it opened, nestled inside was the greatest card ever.

She knows me well, and below her wonderful card was a tea pot.
I did not include the full 360 degrees, but if I had, you would note there is are no bears on it. There are moose and wolves, but no bears. It's times like these I realize how blessed I am. Then I read the card, and I will not recount it here, but, as I mentioned at the beginning, I wasn't ready risk coloured mascara.

My happy song today is My Sweet Lord by George Harrison, my favorite Beatle. Regardless of specific religious beliefs, I have an immense amount of respect for anyone with that much passion for anything. I'm sad he got sued over it. But I'm happy that he played the intro to it on Monty Python, but followed it by a song about pirates, because everyone loves a song about pirates. Ooh, I think that counts as two happy songs. I'm not sure how two songs benefits me, but I bet someone, somewhere is giving me points, and I really want to win that car.

Your instructions most likely mean nothing to me

Everyday I learn new things...slowly. For example, I started playing ultimate frisbee, because I thought "why not?" Well, why not is because I can't really throw or catch a frisbee very well. It's one of those many sports where I am yet to choose a dominant hand, so I just switch it up every little bit, leading to inadequate skills with either hand. It was only my second game yesterday. In the first game I learned to run a lot, mainly away from the frisbee as soon as it was in our possession, so I wouldn't mess anything up.

Yesterday, I learned about "cutting". I'd heard the term for awhile, mainly while on the field, but had no idea what they meant when they shouted "cut, Cut, just CUT SHARON!" So, as I do in response to any instruction I don't understand, I knew I could either (a) freeze like a deer caught in headlights so that I at least wouldn't do the wrong thing, even though it would make it pretty much impossible to do the right thing, or (b) run around erratically and hope that at some point my random movements might accidentally imitate this "cutting" thing. I went for option B since last week I'd learned the most important rule is to run a lot.

Apparently it wasn't very helpful, and I was told to try to turn in 90 degree angles. Like a robot. Well, they didn't say like a robot. I said "Like a robot?" and they said, "Sure..." Frisbee is hard.

Yesterday I learned about the importance of being a robot. Today I learned that storage rooms are fun. At least storage rooms full of disembodied arms and skeletons are fun if I have my camera.

...and you didn't believe me about the disembodied arms.

The following series of pictures is entitled: "Skeletons don't know how to not be creepy for more than an opening line when hitting on a girl."

"Oh, hi there, you look nice tonight.""Have you noticed I'm naked?"
"Are you into necrophilia? Cause I'm totally into bio-philia."

Then my friend Saylinds Selfish took another picture of me with my skeleton friend. It is important to note that this was taken with her yelling, "Look in love! No! In Love, In LOVE! Okay, that's probably close enough."
"Look in love" is apparently as mysterious to me as "Cut, damn you, cut". That's sad. Also, what is sad is that the skeleton did better than me.

Happy song of the day: Mary Ellen Carter by Stan Rogers. After my mopey weekend, it's a good song, because I can bounce back from anything, because, like the Mary Ellen Carter, I'm a ship. Wait, that's not right. But, I'm kind of like a ship, because I float really well. Sometimes I fear I might lose too much weight and not be able to float anymore, but I think I would probably be able to gain it back pretty quickly eating plankton and such. I can eat pretty fast, so I bet with a little effort I could gain it back before I drown. And that is how I'm like the Mary Ellen Carter.