Not Well-Endowed.

It's so hot in my parent's house I could just melt. My dad told me to suck it up about the whole AC issue, and my mom told him to be quiet because he doesn't have to wear a bra in this heat.

It's true, who knew boobs could sweat so much. Suddenly I don't mind being on the smaller side.


I am back in Vancouver at the parental unit's home right now. Late last night I biked around my old neighbourhood and felt all nostalgiac for a time that I didn't necessarily love. It's not that I didn't love my childhood --because I really did --but I would gladly forget those awkward junior high years. Bushy eyebrows and a penchant for good grades never helped the pursuit of popularity.

I've been looking through old pictures for a project at work, and though I've seen these same photographs more times than I can count, I feel like I'm noticing new things today. For one, I look a lot like my mother. Also, my brother, sister, and I wore stripes way too often.

I can already see that I won't be able to sum up the kinds of things I'm feeling right now without sounding painfully sentimental. Suffice to say it's nice to be home, hard to see things that have changed, and comforting to return to people with a shared history.


I know y'all are real worried about me and my FAILED hardrive, but hang in there, I will survive. Sure, my depression is like a heavy fog, but that's normal right? I will have to update with a hilarious explanation of what went down at the mac store because the analogies alone were real knee-slappers. For now, it's just...too soon. Too soon.

In other news, I recently started working for Worn fashion journal, and I urge you all to go read the website where I done gone does my workz and biznezz. I have a few articles up on the site and will be posting regularly there, but here is my riveting introduction for your enjoyment:


Who knew mad blogging skillz could come in handy? All those hours of reading and blogging these past years have merely been preparation.

I was practicing yo, and I didn't even know it.


oh lordy

(This is normally where a vain picture would go. Please, just imagine it).

Things got a little tip-turned upside down the other night. I was all set to watch the Canada's Next Top Model finale and then --WHAMMO! My computer is nothing but a flickering apple screen. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

My hardrive failed. It's dunzo. Fried. Finito. Busted. Bye bye baby bye bye...

Currently, I feel like a hostage, writing this post from the children's public library near my apartment. I'm sure some little Sally or Ralph just wants to look up a Dora the Explorer video on Youtube and well, here I am being a bitch. Sorry kids, this is an adult EMERGENCY.

The very very very nice man (I refuse to say genius) at the Mac store did some Harry Potter shit on my failing computer, and managed to retrieve my precious documents folder. I carried home that burned disk in two hands, TWO HANDS I TELL YA!

I haven't cried yet, but honest to God, this sucks. Posting will be sporadic until I, oh I dunno, win the lottery (take out a loan) and buy a new one. Any sugar daddies (or mommies, I don't discriminate) that want to apply, just send me an email (that I will have to check on a kiddie computer) and I will judge you based strictly on Swiss bank account net sums.

First the bike wipe out and now this. Hey God, THANKS A LOT.


goo goo gaa gaa

(This one is my favourite bruise. The strange ladder-esque scab running up my leg is my favourite zipper imprint injury. The surprise underneath my shoulder bandaids is my favourite road rash scrape. Every time I get dressed I find new and disgusting cuts, bruises, and popped blood vessels.

Yesterday I got into a bike accident.
Today I worked a twelve hour shift.
Today I realized that my bike wheel is bent from yesterday!
Today a piece of dirt flew into my eye and I had to pull my bike over to the side of the road in blindness. I took into consideration the above and just about started crying. Once more, eye dirt almost induced tears.

My feet hurt so much by the time I got home and it made me feel old. I thought of the lunch lady who used to terrorize the primary students at my old elementary school, or more specifically, her ugly tan coloured orthotics. She wore violet tinted glasses, was completely malicious, and we all lived in constant fear of her wrath. One day at lunch hour there was a wind storm, and in a particularly strong gust of air, a large branch fell off a tree and struck this lunch lady. She managed to avoid any real injuries, and so, pretending to nod and mumble about how horrible the whole experience could have been, we collectively rejoiced in our luck. We assumed that someone had prayed because the branch fell down from above --and that could only mean one of two things:



tress distress

Looking at your archives from 2006 can be a dangerous thing. To snip or not to snip, that is the question billy shakes.


my application to the miniature mafia

Resting his hands for a moment between hammering, Hanz felt suddenly lonely.

It is only me in this dark box, this home of sorts. Surely there must be someone out there looking for a Hanz? Perhaps a Greta, or a Hilda?

If only someone would --Hanz put down the hammer and drummed on his workbench --hold me?

Outside Hanz's home, two rabbits chatted quietly. "I am more than a nose wiggler," said Roger (pronounced Rojare, not Rawjer) emphatically. Bettina nodded, "I am so tired of these carrot and lettuce stereotypes. I love yogurt as much as the next mammal!"

He could not be completely certain, but Hanz believed that he could hear the murmur of soft voices in the distance. Of conversations, connections. Picking up the hammer once again, Hanz had faith that he was not alone.

"Lonely, but not alone," he said to himself, "it will do for now."