Hello people of the world, I AM A CONSISTENT LOAFER AND I'M PROUD TO BE THIS WAY!!!-not really. But it's hard to gather your thoughts, make a plan, follow through and ultimately prove to yourself that you're not a train wreck headed for the wall. I want to be good. I do. I want to wake up and feel excited about living and going to school and oh! wouldn't you look at that there's no more soap and your neighbourhood McDonald's is out of McFlurry. First of all, I'd like to say that it has nothing to do with me being a Millennial and all. I'm just tired all the time, even after a full half day of sleeping. I know I'm being a lazy fuckface. I blame this on hormones. And my pillow being so welcoming. And the hypnotic effect of television and computers. I don't feel self-intitled or anything like that. I just have a case of the never ending blues... What to do in such cases??
1. Don't beat yourself up. We can't all be superheroes. We can't all hold all the promises we make to ourselves. Just don't use this as an excuse to not do shit anymore. Wake the fuck up.
2. Be focused. Nothing says focused like eyeing some hot people. FACEBOOK STALKING TIME!!!
3. Music anyone? I'm still convinced music will eventually save the world from its shitty state.
Awkwafina isn't a female Asian rapper. She's a rapper, period. You are then entitled to your opinion on whether or not you like it.
Red prom dress because red suits my passion my personality that can't be boiled down to predetermined paradigms. Black shoes like the hole sucking up my last silver linings the last drops of my will. They match my darker eyes, hair, skin tone too and the thoughts twirling in my head. Prom will be one of those nights with praises, glasses of champagne congratulations for not seeing the jealousies pains, cuts and bruises of all these years The hidden puke behind the desks, the angry poetry in the bathroom stalls, the silent cries for help every morning Prom will be a celebration of a your selves left behind, embracing a world of adulthood lost papers, lost invincibility careless coffee stains and late night meetings The days staying up late texting you my fears will disappear so will the smiles in the hallways the fast food lunches the ripping of failed exams One day it will all mean nothing and we'll just have prom pictures a collection of broken souvenirs memorabilia of the days when we meant something when we weren't pawns in the game of bureaucracy ghosts on the conformity playground when "YOLO" was a thing or we didn't care about the colour of our hair the glitter dying in the toilet bowl when we cheered for our teenage years.
Kiwi died. He's my budgie and I loved him dearly. Great morning singer and the soul of a tiger. For real. He wasn't the same since Blueberry died though. She was his soul mate. But so fragile...I feel like a lousy pet master. I gave him the best funerals I could, considering the circumstances. Under the cold rain, I walked through the park, crossed the river and got to my favorite place in the nearby arboretum. I'd collected a bunch of pretty flowers and leaves on the way, so his grave was filled with happy stuff. I cried a lot too...Jeez, I feel like a lousy pet owner.
What to do when your pet dies? Eat like mad. Tortillas, chocolate covered peanut butter leftover Easter eggs... and listen. To the sound of the wind and the rain pouring. And whatever god music you have on hand.
Confused? So was I. That video is crazy hahah.
Little Dragon is my new fav band. And this is my new fav song.
Feelin' down? Listen to what is sure to be a 2013 Summer Hit.
What was supposed to be a check up on the acute pain I have been feeling in my "diaphragm area aka under-boob area" with my doctor soon turned to nightmare when she sent me to get an ultrasound done. It sounded like a piece of cake-that is until Vlad the technician said "Could you lay down please, Ma'am?". First of all what the fuck? Vlad, you could be my grandpa, for real. Second of all, do I really have to lay down? Since I am a well-behaved patient, I did as I was told. Soon, a clear gel has spread on my abdomen and I felt like a pregnant lady on TV, minus the "pregnant belly" apparatus. And then he started getting close to my treasure chest. And that is when I remembered the box ticked off by my dearly beloved doctor:
ABDOMEN/PELVIC
Fuck. I had agreed for Vlad to give me a full on massage or something. And he was gracious and didn't look too surprised at my unkempt Amazonian forest or my stretch marks or my ex-almost-abs turned to pudding. Such a kind man. If he wasn't my ultrasound technician, he could have been a great lover, I can tell. Frankly, I'm surprised he wasn't in the mood...nothing says romance like make-shift candles in the form of a dim-lighted lamp or the sounds of a keyboard being taped away. Nothing says love like your lover being more interested by a blue lit screen then your confused, uncomfortable gaze towards the ceiling. And so I think it was just weird...to be so "intimate" with someone and all of it for what? To stop the voices in my head saying "Google is right girl, you're gonna have a heart attack! Or cancer, it's definitely cancer!".
Tonight, I was at the Bluma Appel Theatre in Toronto for a performance of Race, work of American playwright David Mamet. And it made me incredibly uncomfortable. Maybe it's becasue I still struggle to understand the darker undercurrents of my African/Caribbean culture which includes resentment and what I feel is some deep rooted internalized self-victimization. So, thank you Mamet. As for you all, the punch-lines, lawyer jargon and sometimes c(rude) language may not be for everyone, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. And considering I'm running on an estimated 4 hours of sleep and much coffee, that's saying a lot.
My tired heart.
My empty head.
My throbbing veins.
My aching pains.
My dying breaths.
My waiting love.
My loving eyes.
I don't understand.
I know.
I know.
That's why it's so hard to see you
come and go
knowing nothing
of the things I feel
the nights I held myself
cried myself into numbness
found a place to rest my head
and think to myself
how can I be so stupid?
They say Love is good
Love is everything.
How can this be my everything
when I just want to die
when you're here
and when you're not?
Poetry has always been a big deal to me. Growing up in my own personal dictatorship at home, it was my escape route to, you know... non shitty stuff. And so, I've recently taken interest in Slam poetry and boy oh boy am I having the best "night after failed math test" day of my life. I present thee with a few of my most promising findings. I've found my calling! (Apart from marrying Jon Snow from Game of Thrones of course).
This is how my road to Slam started today, thanks to Jezebel and Doug Barry. And though what Rachel Rostad may be flawed in some ways, as she mentions here, I think that she has a point. I'm tired of seeing "token" Black girls, token Asian girls, token Hispanic girls... I'm tired of over-simplified characters that I don't feel represent my voice. Maybe I should write my own stuff you say? Sure, but I think it's a valid point to bring up and no, its not being "over-sensitive" of causing "controversy" or whatnot. It's a valid point, because all these girls also use the media and read and see images and when those images don't reflect something that looks or feels even remotely the way you look and feel, you start asking questions. You think I'm crazy? When I was 8, I wanted to be white, thin, with blue eyes like that was the only thing that would solve all my problems. Now, that's crazy.
Kait Rokowski. Holy mother ****. You hit me straight in the gut. Like, wow. I've been down for a while now (parents' divorce, you know...happy times!) and I won't say "depressed" because I haven't had a formal diagnostic. But I've been down. Very low. Not wanting to breathe and live and all that jazz. So I feel so numb when I hear this poem. And, yeah. I've had an 11-year-old tell me "Well, depressed people don't like... have a problem, they're just like...really lazy and don't want to do anything". *HEAD EXPLODES* This girl is a neighbour, so I can't go screaming bloody murder but boy...that struck low. Anyhow, enjoy it!
This right here. I laughed sooo hard. Denice Frohman, ladies and gentleman. It's a hell of a piece and I'm glad I found it today. I've questioned my sexuality, even though my family isn't the best one for that sort of self-discovery... anyhow, back to the poem. It's brilliant. Just listen. SPOILER ALERT: the best part? "Dear straight people, you make me want to fucking rob you." Don't take the quote out of context. Just listen to what she has to say.
Only dude on this list but boy is Jear Singer a beast. Like, oohh boy. You took that literally, didn't you? I mean his skill to convey, in a funny way how he just wants to dance, and how he'll be mocked but he just wants to go out on the dance floor and leave his heart on it. And just the way he start. I won't spoil it for you. Do yourself a favor a see it yourself. If this isn't really your cup of tea, you can always listen to his ABC's.
