Likeable Enough Girl

Decisions

2011-11-21T16:40:00.002-05:00

Benefits

2011-11-21T16:33:00.001-05:00

Life

2011-11-21T16:12:00.001-05:00

Boom

2011-11-21T16:02:00.001-05:00

AAAAAARRRRRGH!

2011-07-18T11:17:00.003-04:00

Here is a blog post I probably won't end up posting. I'm feeling pretty pissy with the world, and I can't put my finger on exactly what's bothering me, so this is just a general vent.

1. Job
There are a million and one stupid and petty things that I have become responsible for here, and I just can't bring myself to care about them right now. I also feel as though I have convinced myself that my job is important and fulfilling when it's actually not so, and it's distracting me from doing something creative. I don't know what that creative thing is, but surely it's more important than being cc-ed on a million emails that I don't need to be cc-ed on? Or is it?!
2. Creativity
"Oh, what shows are you working on? Are you doing a lot of comedy right now? How is performing going?"
Awkward questions that I was asked about a hundred times this weekend. Um, no I'm not really performing. It really slows down during the summer. I'm taking a bit of a breather. Excuses! For the fact that I am lazy and not producing anything. For the fact that I'm too afraid to put myself out there. For the fact that I worry I'm not a very talented performer, and that's why I chose to throw myself into my inconsequential, meaningless job. Instead of actually taking a risk and doing something that interests me. I watched my friends' Fringe plays with a lump in my throat, part jealousy and part wistful longing. And I can't figure out if it's because I want to be doing what they're doing, or if I still get that same feeling I used to when I perform. It's been so long since I've actually cared about a show, or a performance, or a piece of writing I've done. I hate everything that comes out of my mouth or flows out of my pen (or from my fingertips to my keyboard in most cases- who writes shit down with a pen anymore?!). I hate it or I think it's sub-par, and therefore I don't even really try. I just kind of slough it off like "Oh, this? This is just a shitty thing I wrote/made/performed in." I convince myself there are no stakes to it, I'm not heavily invested in it anyhow, so it doesn't really matter if I fail. Because I have already failed. I am a failure. Fail fail fail.
3. Family
This is going to sound really immature and stupid, but my stepsister didn't wish me a happy birthday on Facebook. I mean, why should she? We're not close. But if we're not close, why are we Facebook friends? And why am I friends with her husband? And why am I subjected to pictures of them and their baby and their cat? If they don't care, why should I? Why shouldn't I just subtract them from my friends list? My biological sister phoned me to wish me a happy birthday when she was in Dollarama. Thanks for the personal touch. Then she informs me, after not speaking to me for months (and to be honest, I didn't call her either because I don't have the energy) that she wants to come and visit me for a week. A WEEK?! First of all, I will be working at my dumb and inconsequential job (that I have convinced myself is important because then it doesn't sting too much that I am a failure as an artist- and it even makes me want to barf that I would ever refer to myself as an artist- because what was I really doing but going up on stage and making goofy faces) and I don't have time to entertain her or listen to how awesome she thinks she is for riding the streetcar all by herself.
I also haven't listen to the birthday message my dad left. Because I can't. I just can't listen to it. I wish I didn't have a dad. I don't wish my dad was dead, but I wish he would leave me alone forever. I wish my sister wouldn't try to encourage me to call him. I wish she didn't tell me that our dad is scared of me. I wish he just didn't care, so I could feel better about not caring about him. Our familial attachment is basically meaningless. When he would get angry at me when I was a kid, he would scream "How dare you speak to me like this? I HELPED BRING YOU INTO THIS WORLD." BIG FUCKING DEAL, I wanted to scream back. How hard is it to just donate some sperm? Really. The tough part is being a parent. Which he never was. So why start now?
4. ME ANGRY, ME CAN'T FOCUS ON POSITIVE THINGS
I sound like a whiny child, and I want to punch myself and say "Look at all the awesome things you have going for you- like all your great friends, and the fact that you're not in debt, and someone loves you, and you have a beautiful home and clean water to drink and you're not dying from amoebic dysentery." But I don't say that to myself. I just carry on stomping my feet like a little stupid ball of temper tantrums. TANTRUMBALL. And I end up writing/saying things like everything I just wrote. And then I don't post them. Or I post them for about ten minutes to see if I can get any pity.

Dog Problems

2011-05-31T23:14:00.000-04:00

Irresponsible

2011-03-14T14:18:00.003-04:00

Oh my blog. I miss you. One day I'll be better at taking care of you. I promise.

It's like me and plants. I always think: "Wouldn't it be nice if I were the kind of person who could take really good care of plants, and have them live longer than a month?". And then I rush out and buy a bunch of plants and think "Yes, this is it. Now is the time when I will be an excellent caretaker of plants! Plants love sun! I will put them in a sunny window! Plants love water! I will water them with devotion! I will look at my plants and feel a sense of accomplishment! I am an adult!".

And then days go by, and life happens, and I watch my plants as they wither and die on the windowsill. Or sometimes, it's a succulent, and it just refuses to give up, and I think "Why won't you die and just put us both out of our misery? I'm sorry I didn't water you. But I got caught up watching episodes of Community on Netflix. Stop looking at me like that. I know you don't have eyes, but I can feel you looking at me. Your very existence reminds me of what a failure at life I am."

It's a good thing I don't have children.

A True Story About A Stapler (Alternative Title: I'm Pretty Sure I Have Asperger's)

2011-02-07T13:12:00.003-05:00

I work in kind of an open-concept office, where there are no strict cubicles per se, but there are definitely pod-like arrangements of desks. My desk is located in a back suite, in an open area, but it is typically not very high-traffic, and I enjoy the peace and quiet this affords me. There is another desk just to the east of mine, and there is an office on my left. There is also an edit suite to my right. Finally, there is a printer just behind my desk, used mostly by the people in this back suite.

Frequently, an editor in the suite to my right will be working with a story editor, who needs to make use of the printer. Story editors have their own desks in the edit suite. Office supplies are plentiful, and placed in an obvious and easily accessible table in the main suite. There is absolutely no need for someone to use the office supplies on my desk on an ongoing basis.

And yet, my friends, this is what is happening. Conceal your horror, and listen. Starting just last week, the story editor, working in the suite on my right, prints multiple sheets of paper 7-8 times daily. This necessitates her need for a stapler. On the corner of my desk, I keep a stapler.

"You don't mind if I use this, do you?" she asked gamely, the first time she used my stapler. "No, I suppose not." I answered. But then it became frequent. And every time she used my stapler, she also expected to have some sort of interaction with me. Even if it was just "Thanks for letting me use your stapler" or "Ha ha, I'm using your stapler again." Even on a good day, when I'm in a good mood, I don't like the interruption that this causes. And when she puts the stapler back in the wrong place, I kind of lose my mind a little. And then I feel really self-conscious that she's noticed I'm losing my mind, and I'll have to say something like "Sorry, I'm a bit of a freak! Ha ha!" and then she'll kind of nod and I won't be able to decipher the social cue of the nod, and I'll think it means something horrible and that she hates me.

At one point, I offered to get the story editor her own stapler. I was all cute about it and I did not once launch myself across my desk to grab her by the collar and say "Please, I'm desperate for you to take this stapler I'm offering and leave me and my office supplies alone.". I was very human and normal about it.

"Nah, I'll just keep using yours. I don't use it very much." she replied with a smile. And when someone is nice and kind of friendly, you don't want to reveal that you're totally psychotic and you don't like it when people touch your office supplies, so you (as in me) smile weakly and just continue to let it happen.

But honestly you guys, it almost causes my physical pain to have this person using my stapler, no matter how nice she is. I'm sorry I'm a total monster, but I'm already 28 years old, and I'm not about to become something other than a total monster when I'm already so good at being a monster. I figure I have a few options here. You let me know which one seems least cruel/horrible/lacking in any kind of social graces.

1. Hide the stapler
-Pros- she will see that my stapler is gone and not use my stapler
-Cons- she will ask me about the stapler, and then I will have to admit that I hid it. Then she will end up using the stapler. Or I could lie and say it's been stolen. But then she'll ask me to get a new stapler. And at this point, we've had a conversation, when it was my ultimate goal to stop having conversations about the stapler. GAHHH!
2. Have two staplers, and mark one "Guest"
-Pros- when she sees I have two staplers, I can just give her one to keep
-Cons- I don't know, this feels a bit mean. Plus, we'll probably have to have a conversation. She'll say "Oh ha ha, a guest stapler. That's so funny. What a funny joke!" while I feel like fingernails are being scraped across the blackboard of my soul.
3. Put a stapler on the printer table
-Pros- this one is all pro. There's a stapler just there, hanging out! Oh amazing! I don't have to use anyone's stapler that is sitting on THEIR desk, on which they need to arrange everything JUST SO or they can't concentrate. GREAT!!
-Cons- She'll turn around and say "Hey, great, there's a stapler on this table now! Yay!"
-More cons- knowing people in this office, someone will swipe it. And then my stapler will be the only option again.
4. Put hot sauce on the stapler
-Pros- This would just be funny. Plus, I saw Dr. House do it on an episode of "House". "House" is the best!
-Cons- someone actually got charged with a crime for disciplining their children in this manner in the States.
-More cons- I'll forget the hot sauce is there, and inevitably touch my eyes.
5. Litter my desk with Kleenex, act like I'm really sneezy and germ-y
-Pros- No one will want to touch ANY of my stuff. Except for maybe my hand sanitizer after just looking at me.
-Cons- Exhausting to keep up the germ-y girl act. People will want to know what I have, how long I've had it, am I feeling better today, etc. And then we're into conversation territory again, or as I call it "The Black Hole of Death". Seriously, have you ever noticed how conversations you DON'T want to get into have their own gravitational pull? How is that possible? Someone should come up with an algorithm for this phenomenon.

That's just what I've thought of so far. Let me know if you can come up with something better. Tune in next week when I write about how I hate it when people touch the Mr. Potato Head I have on my desk, and how stupid it is for me to keep a Mr. Potato Head on my desk, because you can't not touch a Mr. Potato Head (FYI- I do not touch him. He is there to watch to make sure no one touches my stuff when I am away).

Intergalactic Frog Relations: A School Report

2011-02-07T12:07:00.003-05:00

May 18th, 2014

Intergalactic Frog Relations: A Report by Erasmus X. Smythe

My report is about Intergalactic Frog Relations. This is a topic I find both fascinating, and entertaining. Intergalactically, frogs have many relations to each other. Some of them are good. Some of them are bad. All of them are relations, though. Otherwise they wouldn't be called "Intergalactic Frog Relations". They'd be called something else. But it is not for me to speculate what that might be.

All of these relations span many galaxies, which is what makes these relations "intergalactic" so to speak. Some of them may by relating from the next galaxy over, which makes them close galactic relations. And some of them may be relating from galaxies far, far away. The result is about the same in all cases. Relations between galaxies. The dictionary definition of intergalactic is: between or among galaxies; "intergalactic space". So I guess that pretty much wraps up that part of that. On to the next paragraph!

Frogs are creatures. They are amphibians. When they are born, they are not frogs at all but tadpoles. Then they grow up. Then they are frogs for real. This is what as known as "trickery". It's a good fake-out for a species to be one thing when they are children, and quite another when they have reached maturity. I bet tadpoles can get away with a tonne of stuff. Like, they could pull pranks typical of frogs, and then when people are looking for the culprit, the tadpoles could be all "It's wasn't us, we're just tadpoles!". Frogs like to live in swamps and ponds and stuff. They eat insects. They frequently communicate by going croak and/or ribbit. If you refer to a French person as a frog, you are being offensive. Sometimes people eat frogs. That sounds gross. I don't know why anyone would want to do that. Maybe it tastes like chicken. Not much else is known about frogs, or why they came to be the way they are. The frogs are a guarded, and elusive species. They are also proud, and some of them carry spears tipped with a deadly poison. Can you guess which part of that was a lie, and which part was the truth? If you cannot, I feel I deserve an "A" on this paper. Boy, I guess there's really a lot to say about frogs. But that's probably it.

Relations is a tricky word. Maybe even a little sexy. Like "I had relations with that woman". But in this case, we're talking about frogs, and as frogs are so mysterious, no one knows how they reproduce (and if they did, they're not telling because it's probably pretty disgusting, and may or may not involve slime). Sometimes relations means the same as relative, like that is my uncle frog, or that is my mother frog. Not so in this instance! Boy, language sure is tricky. Relations. What a word, am I right?

I guess what I'm really trying to get at here is that frogs relate to each other in an intergalactic way. Maybe like so: "Oh hey, I'm a frog on Jembron 4. What's up frog over on Kexil 17?" and then they have a little check-in with each other, and then when they've run out of words to say, or things get too awkward, they just stop talking. I guess with frogs, it must be hard to relate to frogs in other galaxies. Because it's must be like "Wow, you eat Grixfaar flies? I eat Heronium 7 flies. That is like, too weird man. We have like, nothing in common." and then the frogs shrug and are like "Whatever. You don't know me".

Or I mean, maybe frogs are all "Wow, it doesn't matter that we live in other galaxies and stuff, we have so much in common! Holy crow! Also, crows are scary because they might eat us! Let us launch a war against the crows together!". So that's a definite possibility as well.

In conclusion, and in summation, there are frogs in galaxies, and they might just call each other up every once in a while for a chat. And sometimes they talk a lot, and sometimes it just to say a quick hi and bye. But one thing is for sure: This is happening. So look out! Because frogs might be plotting our death. Or are they? Scientists just don't know, and can't even be bothered to do the meticulous research on this topic because it could be too explosive. Or there might not even be such a thing as Intergalactic Frog Relations. I could have just made it up. Or did I? You can never know. As there are no books in the library on Intergalactic Frog Relations, so there's no way you can fact-check this school report. Excelsior!

FINAL GRADE: F-

Excerpt From the Diary of Choada, the Man Made of Choad (More Choad Than Man)

2011-02-04T17:16:00.004-05:00

March 10, 1947

Dear Diary,

Well, things are about the same as always here in the Traveling Spectacle of Oddities Freakshow. I'm real sweet on the Dog-Faced Girl, but she won't even look at me. She's too busy pitching woo with Harp, the Man Who Eats Everything. Oh boy, would I ever give him something to eat. And by that, I mean a knuckle sandwich!

I mean, I know I'm not much to look at. I'm a Choada Man, for Pete's sake! And they say I'm more choada than man. My body is 90% choada, and the other 10% is eyes and the tiniest slit of a mouth. But beneath my wrinkly and eerily soft (and always kind of moist) exterior, there lies the heart of a true lover! A Don Juan even!

The bearded lady is always telling me what a sense of humor I have. She says my jokes are real humdingers, yessirree! That bearded lady is always hanging off my every word, bringing me more root beer when I'm thirsty, massaging my lower choad when I get sore from all the acrobatics I have to do to earn my keep. Boy, if only I liked the Bearded Lady! I'd be set for life! Too bad about that beard of hers. Without it, she'd be a real looker.

We're in California now, and it's real pretty out here. Maybe one day when I make enough money, and the Dog-Faced Girl finally likes me, we'll get married and move here. Just a little lean-to on the side of a hill, beans for dinner every night. That's all we'll need. I'll look up from the crackling fire at my Dog-Faced bride and say "Shucks honey, aren't we just the luckiest?" and she'll go "Woof woof!", and put her paw in my hand, and my eyes will get all full up with tears and I'll turn away, because it's real wimpy when a girl sees you crying.

The Bearded Lady saw me crying once. It was all on account of Harp tripping me when I was on my way up to the stage to perform, see. She gave me her hand-embroidered handkerchief and said "Don't pay that Harp no nevermind. You're worth a thousand Harps to me, Choada Man". Boy, if I didn't find her so hideously ugly, my heart would have been full to bursting over the kindness of her words. But I can't bring myself to even think of what it might be like to make whoopie to a girl with a beard. Gee whiz! I still have her handkerchief though.

The Ringmaster seems upset with me lately. I just can't figure why. Whenever he sees me with the Bearded Lady he acts all jealous and mean. I tell him we're just friends, but barely! I mean, I'm the Choada Man. I've have what the French might call a "mystique". I wish that darned Dog-Faced girl would see me all mysterious-like, kind of like the Shadow in those radio serials we all listen to when the show is over and the customers have all gone home.

Well, it's time to turn in now. I sure hope I don't find the Bearded Lady in my bed when I get there! Sometimes I find her long beard hairs on my pillow, and the pillow is all damp like someone has been sweating or crying or both in my bed. Boy, if I catch her in my bed I'll give her a good tongue lashing and call her ugly to boot. Ha! That'll show her!

And now to sleep, perchance to dream (I've been reading that fancy Shakespeare to impress the Dog-Faced Girl). Oh Dog-Faced Girl, I sure hope I dream of you. You sure are pretty. Not like that Bearded Lady. Sheesh!

Reasons to Find February Less Dreary, More Interesting

2011-02-04T14:44:00.004-05:00

February is upon us. That month of silent "r"'s and cold chills. It is the shortest month, and it feels insecure about this. It compensates by being a bit of a dick. February will come up behind you and tell you your ass looks fat. February will drink the last of the milk and put the carton back in the fridge. February will cut in the streetcar line at Spadina Station, and you'll fume because you waited a solid twenty minutes to get to the head of the line, so you could have your first pick of the streetcar seats, and here's February acting like the TTC is her very own goddamn chauffeur service. And you'll watch February for the entire ride, dancing to music that only February can hear, a bent cigarette hanging out of her mouth which you know she will light up, and then blow smoke right in your face the second you both alight from the car. Who the hell does February think she is? Lady Gaga or something?!

You and February will have a really deep conversation, in which you'll discover you both come from broken homes and share a love of Pablo Neruda, and you'll feel like you and February have really made a connection, finally, but then you'll see February the next day in the hall at school and February will be all "Do I know you?", and you'll be crushed. And February will laugh with all her little friends and call you "loser girl". And then you'll eat your Cheez Whiz sandwich alone in the library, even though you know you're not supposed to eat in the library, while you hide your teary face behind a tattered copy of Madame Bovary. And then that boy you like will walk by, but you're too embarrassed to wave hello, because when you cry, you sweat like an animal, and you don't want him to see the two large, wet circles under your arms. Then February starts a rumor that you're gay, and also pregnant, and also a witch, and you have to change schools in the middle of the year. But sometimes you still see February on the bus, and she looks at you with a mixture of remorse and disgust.

But I digress. February has a bad rap. There are plenty of reasons to say "February sucks and I hate it and I'm going to take a bottle of Ambien and sleep until it's over". Sure. I'll give you that. But did you know that there are also some kind of okay things about February? There are. Just listen:

-February is Children's Dental Health month. There's nothing that brings warmth to my heart like dragging an unwilling child to the dentist, and watching them squirm while all four of their canines are removed, because they have been deemed "too prominent", and "somewhat wolf-ish".

-February is National Embroidery month. You could stitch a sampler with the words "Fuck February", and everyone would be all "Oh, how lovely." And then you'll win a hat at the box social.

-February is National Wild Bird Feeding month. Feed the wild birds. Gain their trust. Then snatch them and bake them into a pie.

-February is also Responsible Pet Owners month. What better way to be responsible for your once wild, now domesticated birds, than eating them? Waste not, want not.

-The Royal Canadian Mounted Police came into existence on February 1st, 1920. Originally, they were an organization dedicated to the mustache-ification of the great country of Canada. But today, many forms of facial hair are acceptable to the RCMP. Except for sideburns.

-February 3rd, 1959 was The Day the Music Died. Thank God for that. Music was terrible. It was all notes and time signatures. Melody. What a waste of time.

-February 7th is Charles Dickens' birthday. Celebrate by eating gruel, becoming a mysterious benefactor, or breaking some poor man's heart just because you have no heart of your own.

-February 11th is National Inventor's Day, in honour of Thomas Edison's birthday. You could throw a little party and come up with Edison-related insults. For example: Hey Edison, invent your face, loser!

-February 13th is Get a Different Name Day. You may choose a new name from the government approved list. Tongue is a very popular name for boys. Muleheart is a lovely name for a girl!

-February 21st is family day in Canada. This is also known as "Drink to Forget the Ritual Abuse" day.

-February 23rd is World Thinking Day. Have a little think on that one, why don't you?

-February 28th is Public Sleeping Day. Sleep in public. Try not to get raped!

-If you are very lucky, and it is a leap year, there is also a February 29th. On this day, everyone can do and say exactly what they want, and the weird thing is no one will remember it, and everything will go back to normal the next day. You could gamble away your life savings on February 29th, and on March 1st, you would wake up with savings still intact. On February 29th, you could cheat on your longtime girlfriend with eight strippers and a marmoset, and on March 1st, you would wake up with absolutely no STDs next to your doting gal pal. Some say you can even go so far as to purposefully allow yourself to be eaten by a shark on February 29th, and the next day you would wake up without a scratch or shark bite on you. WARNING: Do not mistake February 28th for February 29th. On February 28th, you will most certainly lose your nest egg, get AIDS, and die of shark poisoning.

So there you have it, folks. Perhaps you're now convinced that February isn't so bad after all. Well, that's just what February wants you to think. Now that February has gained your trust, February has gone behind your back and slept with your husband. I guess some things never change! Oh February!

An Inventory of What Russian Scientists Found in Lake Vostok

2011-02-04T12:56:00.002-05:00

Scientists are but days away from reaching the frigid waters of a lake in Antarctica, which is covered by miles of glacial ice. As such, these waters have gone undisturbed for 15 million years, so obviously whatever is found down there when the drilling is complete will be marvelous and old. Possibly haunted. And mysteriously cold. If you have a yen to read about the actual "science" of this scientific endeavour, you may do so here.

But, dear reader, you know well that this blog is mostly concerned with all things fantastical, and so, a real treat! A talking grandfather clock once rewarded my kindness to him with the gift of foresight. Through the means of automatic writing, I have compiled a list of items found in the lake (two days from now), which may be of some interest to the general public. And to answer the question I know you are thinking (because I have the gift of foresight, you recall): I am perfectly sane, and even a bit of a dullard.

-A sea cucumber
-A ghost
-A cello
-the grindings of eons dead marsupial fauna
-A grilled cheese sandwich
-A Scotch egg
-The haunting faerie queen of the blackest depths, who promptly bewitched the scientists, so that they forgot their wives and families, and lived only to fulfill her every whim and desire (most of which are too sexy and dangerous to write about here)
-A Mason jar, and upon opening, scientists remarked upon the foul stench. On further inspection, the jar also contained a note which read "Whosoever smelt it, dealt it"
-A map to a country that only existed in the mind of an eight year old boy for thirty seconds in the year 1977
-A very angry chihuahua
-Every sock that ever has or ever will go missing
-An HDCam master of "Psychic Dogs: Episode 7- Rover Sees Dead People". The show was said to be "viewable" and "largely forgettable after ten minutes or so"
-An assortment of vegan cakes
-God's keys (God was heard to remark: "That's where I left them!")
-Proof that life could exist on one of Jupiter's moons (which was promptly discarded, as it was useless and also kind of ugly)
-The intricate machinery of a race of super-intelligent cats. Once switched on, the machines produced tuna juice out of thin air
-Plans for the aforementioned machines, written in a language to complex to decipher
-Yo mamma
-A Raymond Chandler novel
-A portrait of a handsome young sea captain, whose eyes betrayed a terrible sadness, and whose lined face was filled with worry too great for one man to bear
-A cursed wrist watch, that once belonged to a Spanish explorer
-Water

I hope this has been illuminating for you, dear reader. I cannot explain how all of these items came to be in this lake that has been covered in thick ice for millions of years. Perhaps we shall leave some mysteries to "science", with its largely unproven mathematics and archaic rituals.

Why Did They Cancel "The Cape"?

2011-02-04T12:01:00.002-05:00

Why did they cancel "The Cape"? It's a question I ask myself every night. Nay, every second of every day. My heart is heavy. I cannot sleep, as my fevered dreams are full of haunting visions of "The Cape"- visions that shall never come to pass. My gut burns with the acid of disappointment (this may also be due to the office coffee). My hair has started to turn snow white, and my behaviour in public has become extremely erratic. I take my meagre- and now tasteless- meals in a fort I have constructed of couch cushions and my limited edition "The Cape" Snuggy. I can no longer find pleasure in life's simple joys, like farting in a most hated enemy's chair when they are on their lunch break. I flew too close to the sun (and in this case, the sun was the sheer ridiculousness of "The Cape"), and now I face a fall back to the unforgiving earth.

Here is the simple truth of it: "The Cape" was just too awesome. Other television shows felt threatened. And instead of stepping up their game, to be just as nonsensically demented as this paragon of entertainment, they sneaked up behind "The Cape" when it was asleep and slit its throat. The cowardly other shows on television crept back into the shadows, where they continued to be mediocre.

"The Cape" bled out in the darkness. No one was there to witness this death of a hero, this passing of an era. "The Cape"- while an astonishing hot mess of wonderful/awfulness- was but a mortal after all.

Weeks from now, when you tune in to NBC on Sunday nights, you will be greeted with a reality show about psychic dogs, or asshole robots. It will be familiar to you, and most importantly, it will be inoffensive and completely un-challenging. You will forget "The Cape" ever existed. You will carry on.

But I will not. I will remember. And I will weep. You will find me placing a solitary rose under my CRT Sony Vega. You will find me writing "The Cape" fan fic under the name ChessLover. You will find me dressed as Orwell at science fiction conventions. BECAUSE SOMEONE HAS TO REMEMBER. Or the Ark Corporation wins. Or something. I don't know. I could barely follow the plot of "The Cape". Could you? Meh.

Snakepocalypse 6

2011-02-04T11:33:00.007-05:00

Snakepocalypse 7

2011-02-04T11:33:00.006-05:00

Snakepocalypse 4

2011-02-04T11:32:00.007-05:00

Snakepocalypse 5

2011-02-04T11:32:00.006-05:00

Snakepocalypse 2

2011-02-04T11:31:00.006-05:00

Snakepocalypse 3

2011-02-04T11:31:00.005-05:00

Snakepocalypse 1

2011-02-04T10:57:00.004-05:00

A Totally Untrue History of My Sister's Birth and Life

2011-02-01T15:04:00.004-05:00

A young me, staring in fascination at the tiny Robyn, who does not look like a burrowing mammal.

On this day in 1984, in chilly Flin Flon, Manitoba, the adorable Robyn Grant was born. People came from miles around to view the tiny, pink, glowing baby. You see, up until this point, children born in Flin Flon very much resembled voles, or even moles.

The mayor of Flin Flon declared February 1st a public holiday, and the people rejoiced- celebrating by drinking gallons of the local home-brew (a mixture of Gatorade, Diet Pepsi, Tabasco and diesel fuel). The drinking was followed by man vs. junkyard dog races. Much gaiety and frivolity ensued. The adorable Robyn ascended to goddess-like status, and to this day, the decent folk of Flin Flon still honour February 1st, the day of her birth, by placing burning tires in their front yards.

The beautiful, miraculously un-vole-like Robyn grew into a lovely young woman, and moved to Winnipeg, where her grace and charms are much remarked upon by all of the brutish and ill-mannered denizens of that frost-bitten town. On February 1st, 2011, she was declared Birthday Queen of Winnipeg, and she was given a loaf of Kub bread, a platter of deli meat and a Guess Who Greatest Hits album- the finest gifts that Winnipeg can bestow upon a newly crowned monarch.

"Rule over us with kindness, and a fair hand!" the people of Winnipeg cried out, "And yea, we shall bring thee cheesecake from Baked Expectations!". The gorgeous Robyn, who did not even remotely resemble a mole, raised but one lovely hand. "People of Winnipeg!" she called out in her melodious voice, "My, loyal subjects! I accept this crown and this loaf of Kub bread and other sundries. And I shall rule you all with decency and love!".

The ruffians of Winnipeg cheered, and carried her, on her throne, to her palace on Wellington Crescent, where cute kittens frolicked in the front yard. There, she retired for the evening, exhausted from the excitement of the coronation. She checked her messages, and noticed her dumb sister had called to wish her a happy birthday. "How nice", she thought. "But I mean, she could have at least sent me a card or something."

Another Cat in a Cape Reviews the Television Show "The Cape"

2011-01-31T22:17:00.003-05:00

You guys, seriously. "The Cape" is my new "The Mentalist". "The Mentalist" is just kind of staid and bad. "The Cape" is all kinds of crazy bad. AND MENA SUVARI JUST WALKED IN! HOLY SHIT THIS IS AWFUL! I LOVE IT!

A Bear Gripes About Bell

2011-01-31T21:47:00.002-05:00

Do Not Take Your Owl to Tron Legacy

2011-01-19T23:53:00.002-05:00

Do Not Take Your Owl to the County Fair

2011-01-19T23:42:00.002-05:00

Do Not Take Your Owl to Canadian Tire

2011-01-19T23:33:00.002-05:00

Possum Will End Us All

2011-01-17T21:00:00.003-05:00

Apartment Hunt

2011-01-17T20:39:00.002-05:00

A Cat in a Cape Reviews the Television Show "The Cape"

2011-01-17T20:19:00.003-05:00

Not Funny, Because My House is Freezing

2011-01-12T22:42:00.002-05:00

Animal Hoarders

2011-01-10T22:18:00.002-05:00

Ambition Hamster

2011-01-10T22:08:00.003-05:00

Awkward Turtle III: Revenge of the Awkward

2011-01-09T22:55:00.001-05:00

Awkward Turtle II: The Awkwardening

2011-01-09T22:43:00.002-05:00

Awkward Turtle

2011-01-09T22:31:00.001-05:00

Pizza Kitty

2011-01-07T00:34:00.002-05:00

Too Soon, Coolest Dog!

2011-01-07T00:22:00.004-05:00

Probably the Coolest Dog

2011-01-05T23:28:00.003-05:00

Carl, the Dick-ish Silverfish

2011-01-05T00:08:00.003-05:00

The Mission

2011-01-04T23:43:00.002-05:00

Home at Last

2011-01-04T21:29:00.002-05:00

I Can See My House

2011-01-04T21:14:00.003-05:00

Cupcakes

2011-01-03T22:00:00.002-05:00

Anxiety Hamster 2

2011-01-03T16:28:00.002-05:00

Anxiety Hamster

2011-01-03T16:09:00.002-05:00

Drop Dog

2011-01-03T15:37:00.000-05:00

The Haunted Mail Room- Part One

2010-09-30T16:24:00.003-04:00

Once upon a time, there was a haunted mail room. It was filled from top to bottom with the spirits of letters that had been sent long ago. The mail clerk, a meek, easily frightened man, claimed he could hear the whispered words of a hundred mailed missives. He did not like to be in the mail room alone, and hence he purchased a canary, that chirped in its cage in a disorganized corner.

"Why is there bird poop on my package?" the office princess wondered aloud.

"Why would my mother mail me seeds?" the IT knight mused.

But no one made the connection to the bright little bird in the corner of the mail room. In fact, no one ever visited the mail room. Until one day, that is, when the mail clerk called in sick for the first time in his life.

"Who will sort the mail?" the king of the office blustered. "I need my catalogues!"

"You mean your Victoria's Secret catalogues?" the office jester quipped.

"Silence fool! Who is unimportant enough to be sent to the mail room?" the king looked out across the wide expanse of his office until his eyes settled on one person.

"The intern." said the king. "Fetch me the intern!"

The intern looked up from his desk and accidentally made eye contact with the king. That was a big mistake. You were never supposed to make eye contact with the king. Never, never, never. Suddenly, the office page grabbed the intern's arm.

"You are coming with me!" the office page hissed with her martini-breath. "You are in so much trouble, you little shit!"

The intern's heart sank. He had been working at the office ever since he had been abandoned at the doorstep post-college graduation. Now he would have to find a new non-paying internship at some other office. All because he had looked up at the most inopportune moment. His stomach filled with dread as the page shoved him inside the king's office. He braced for the impact of a swift kick in the shins... but it did not come.

"You! Intern!" the king said, "I'm moving you to the mail room! Don't look at me! I said the mail room! And no lunch for you today!"

The intern's jaw dropped. He hadn't been fired. He'd been assigned to the mail room. But perhaps it was a fate worse than death. The intern thought of his baloney sandwich, lovingly slathered with Cheez-Whiz. His belly rumbled. He pictured his room-mate, the beautiful maiden Irene handing him the sandwich, with a note that read "Go get 'em champ!", and then she had smiled that perfectly mysterious smile at him. And with a swish of her long black hair, she....

Suddenly, the office page jabbed him in the spine with the mail room key, snapping him out of his reverie.

"You! Get a move on! Right quick! On the double! Get yourself down to the haunted mail room post haste!" she spat, snapping her fingers. The intern looked at her long, talon-like red nails and did not hesitate a moment longer.

"Wait a minute", he thought as he hurried deep into the bowels of the building. "Did she say haunted mail room?"

And then he found himself at the large, imposing, iron door of the mail room. With a shaking hand, he unlocked the door. Slowly, he opened it, and peered around the room. He could hear a faint rustle from the corner. And then a chirp. And a hiss. And a whisper. The room was dark. The intern searched the wall for a light switch, which he found after a few tense moments. The greenish hued fluorescent lights buzzed on. In the corner, the intern spied a canary in a cage.

"Ah, that must be the source of the rustle and the chirp!" he said aloud. He was surprised by the thin croak his voice made. He looked around a little more, and saw a pneumatic tube, which led up to the ceiling.

"Ah, that must be the source of the hiss! And quite possibly the whisper! For it could not have been anything else!" the intern tried to force a jovial quality to his voice. But he did not feel jovial. He felt very frightened indeed.

To be continued....

Once Upon a Temp 3

2010-09-27T16:43:00.002-04:00

In work news today:

-I created two new folders for my email inbox: Important-ish and Neither Here Nor There.

-After creating the folders, I spent twenty minutes evenly distributing emails I never want to have to look at again into these two folders.

-I realized that far too many of my Facebook friends are home in the middle of the day.

-I read far too many status updates with the words "blessed" and "lucky", and "hey, your problems aren't so bad!". Then I cried for a while in the ladies room and consoled myself with pasta salad.

-It seems like everyone else is living the dream.

-I should never have made fun of "The Secret".

-I am clearly not living the dream. I'm not even sure if this is a nightmare. I kind of think this might be the ether between two dimensions. But would there be pasta salad in the ether between two dimensions? Science needs to find out. We need to put this shit on priority, science. I WILL NOT REST UNTIL SCIENCE GIVES ME A STRAIGHT ANSWER, DAMMIT!

-I laminated something.

-I googled "inside a turtle shell", because I wanted to find a picture of a turtle inside its shell, naked and sitting in an easy chair, enjoying its favourite program on television. Because that's totally what goes on inside a turtle shell, and don't you dare try to tell me any different.

-I wished I was naked inside my shell, sitting in an easy chair, enjoying my favourite program on television.

-I pretty much only found pictures of Ninja Turtles and the Montauk Monster.

-This just in: the Montauk Monster was a naked turtle.

-I came up with an invention called "The Super Sulker", and it's basically just a Super Soaker full of mashed potatoes that you squirt into your mouth and feel sorry for yourself.

-I read a CBC article about how blogs were popular. According to the article, 60% of people read a blog every day. The other 40% don't realize they are reading a blog, but they really are reading a blog, so it's like 100% of people read blogs! Also, there are too many old people on the internet. To combat this, I pledge to write 70% less blog posts about prunes and life insurance.

-I made a sign that read: Hello! Would you like some broken electronics? Please help yourself. Perhaps you can build a robot with them! But please, do not build a Terminator. Thanks.

-I fell into a deep sleep at my desk, and dreamed of a nuclear holocaust. When I woke up, I had carved "NO FATE" into my desk with my scissors.

Once Upon a Temp 2

2010-09-21T16:05:00.005-04:00

It's been a fairly slow day here at the old temp-contract-but-haven't-signed-a-contract-since-February-but-I'm-still-here-job. Which is fine by me because I've had a really wicked migraine for the past couple of days. I also had a disturbing dream that I was Leonard Nimoy, and that I was in a gun-fight that took place in an old Victorian mansion. Except I didn't get a gun. I got a Frankenstein. And my Frankenstein was cut down in a hail of bullets. And I as Leonard Nimoy wept for my poor monster (according to dreammoods.com, dreaming of Frankenstein indicates you feel tormented and rejected by society. They have no interpretation for dreams about Leonard Nimoy, but I'm guessing it means pretty much the same thing as dreaming about Frankenstein). And now I'm basically not able to function, because I'm a sensitive and delicate soul. If my life were perfect, I'd be sitting in a bean-bag chair in a nice patch of sun with a glass of lemonade and the September issue of Vogue. But that is not my life. I must work, you know.

I laminated a thing earlier. And I tried to remove some goo from the board room windows, with a miracle product called Goo Gone that is assuredly a deadly poison (and will most likely cause birth defects in my future children, you've been warned, you better say something nice about my flipper babies). I'm thinking about doing an inventory of chairs in the office, but what's really consuming my attention right now are email signatures. Most notably, my lack of one.

As a temp-contract-but-haven't-signed-a-contract-since-February-but-I'm-still-here-worker, I wonder if an email signature is necessary. But then I started to think "Hey... maybe if I present this image of being a go-getter, people will take me seriously and maybe one day I could be a real worker!". And so I set out to compose the perfect email signature.

My first was an experiment of colour and font. Something eye-catching and unmistakable:

LINDSAY GRANT

OFFICE ASSISTANT

Please note my new signature. I don't care if it hurts your eyes to read it.

This is a signature that says "I'm whimsical- and I have no regard for your rods and cones". But it doesn't necessarily say "I'm the wave of the future, and I will take this company to new heights". Perhaps my second attempt will convince you:

LINDSAY GRANT

OFFICE ASSISTANT

BATTLESTAR GALACTICA AFFICIONADO

WAVE OF THE FUTURE AROUND THIS PLACE

ASK ME ABOUT GETTING GOO OFF THE BOARDROOM WINDOWS

It's close, but it's still not perfect. Maybe a more classic font would do the trick:

LINDSAY GRANT

OFFICE ASSISTANT

FAIR LADYE

SLAYER OF DRAGONS

TOTAL KNAVE

Meh. It might make a good business card, but it's hardly an impressive email signature. Wait. I have it. If you want people to take you seriously, use impact font. And then punch them in the nuts.

LINDSAY GRANT

OFFICE ASSISTANT

GET OUT OF MY WAY

HERE COMES PROGRESS

OH SORRY, WAS THAT YOUR FOOT?

I SAID GET OUT OF MY WAY

SO BASICALLY IT WAS YOUR FAULT YOU GOT STEPPED ON

I LAMINATED SOMETHING. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TODAY?

THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT

CHUMP

I think that's the way to go. And now, I'm going to change my Kerio webmail skin to "stratosphere". Because that is where my career is going, baby. Whizz!

Once Upon a Temp

2010-09-17T16:49:00.002-04:00

If I had my dream life, I'd get up at nine every morning and swim laps in a pristine lake and then guzzle a whole pot of coffee before settling in to write. Oh, and birds would sing to me and stuff. And I would be able to find a pair of boots to fit my massive calves.

But I don't have that life. And I can never find those boots. So I'm stuck working like a chump.

One day, not too long ago, I took a temp reception job at an advertising company. Well, first I interviewed for the job because the receptionist was in a real pissy mood one day and quit. But then she un-quit. But then she quit for real. So I came in as a temp while they continued to interview for the position.

The office had a really spooky vibe. It was kind of like I was Belle, living in the Beast's enchanted castle. It was kind of dim up front. And the elevators opened right onto the reception area, so I would listen to them whoosh up and down all day. There were commercials playing on a non-stop loop, some of them with really frightening music. When I had to walk around the office to deliver mail, I was continually getting lost due to the labyrinthine nature of the corridors. Plus, there were a lot of fellows in the office who all kind of looked the same or had kind of generic dude names, so that made it more challenging. Oh, and it was a PC-based office. The horror.

So I tried my best to fit in, as best as a temp can do. I commiserated with employees as they chomped down Jolly Ranchers, which sat in a bowl on my desk. On the Friday, there was beer and wine, and general conviviality. It was the day before Halloween, so there were a couple of people in costumes. I gamely donned a pair of cat ears and put Monster Mash on Windows Media Player so that all could dance and mingle.

"What is this low energy crap?" one of the similarly named, similar-looking gentlemen in the office demanded when Tubular Bells came on over the sound system. "Let me give you one of my CDs. You need to play this."

I popped the CD in. Hootie and the Blowfish started to play. "This is my jam." he said without a hint of irony. He started to sing along. It seemed that everyone got very drunk very quickly, and then a poker game started and everyone disappeared from the reception area. I silently sucked a Jolly Rancher and decided that the job was okay, I guess. No better, and no worse than others I'd held down in the past. A nine to five with different quirks and foibles than other nine to fives, but still a nine to five. I could learn to accept it. I could learn to perhaps love it. I would ask how the weekends of all the similarly named gentlemen went, and compliment the ladies on their cute skirts. I would be a sympathetic ear, as well as a top notch sender of packages, binder of meeting materials, and cleaner of the espresso machine. Their fridge would never be without juice. Their holidays would never been without seasonally appropriate candy. I could be more than just their temp. I could be their perm. I was going to be the princess they were looking for.

The next week, they started interviewing other candidates for the job, and I didn't get it. So I shrugged, smiled at my new Facebook friends, and went off again into that wide world like the vagabond that I am.

And I had many adventures, and met many strange and interesting people. Which I will tell you about if you are patient and good.

TO BE CONTINUED

Real Owl

2010-09-01T09:39:00.002-04:00

What is Wrong With My Face?

2010-08-31T19:11:00.002-04:00

I was stuck at the theatre for an hour and a half with a stiff mouse and MS Paint. What else was I going to do?

Jeopardy Wolf

2010-08-31T16:33:00.001-04:00

But seriously... what smug jerk came up with "Potent Potables" as a category?

Hoarders

2010-08-31T14:41:00.001-04:00

Human Intelligence

2010-08-27T17:06:00.000-04:00

My Life in Fance

2010-08-24T14:40:00.006-04:00

Some days, particularly in the late summer, my mind likes to wander. And when it does, it inevitably wanders back to the six beautiful months I spent in Fance. Oh, how I free I felt! How glorious to be young, and in love, and in Fance, the most romantic place on earth! Fance, where the hills are draped in finery, and the cobblestone streets are lined with lace and gemstones. Fance, where you dine on clouds, and drink a juice made from the extract of happiness itself. Fance, where it is always nap-time if you want it to be, but you don't want to go to sleep, because being awake is like a beautiful dream.

Surely by this point, you are thinking "There is no place called Fance. Obviously she's just misspelling France. Should I tell her? She needs to know that she's an idiot." My friends, I assure you that I am not an idiot, nor am I insane, nor am I making this up. Fance is 100% real. It is as real as soccer, or meatballs. In fact, Air Canada has two flights, non-stop, daily to Fance. But they don't advertise this fact. Because Fance is a secret. So shhhhh! But let me tell you the amazing story of how I came to live in Fance.

Few know this about me, but I am adopted. It's true. Some may say "But Lindsay, you are the spitting image of your father!" or "Sometimes when I hear you and your mother in the same room together, I cannot tell who is who!". But this is mere coincidence. It is remarkable, yes. But this is why my adoptive parents were chosen for me. Because they were the perfect cover. Because I fit in so well. Because no one would ever suspect that I was not really Lindsay Grant, but I was in fact Lindsay De Gamet De Fance*. That's right. I am the heir to the thone of Fance. Because in Fance, it is a thone, and not a throne.

My real parents, the King and Queen of Fance (names withheld for their protection) were driven from their native land by a bunch of intelligent marmosets. The marmosets swore to my parents that should they ever return to Fance, they would be instantly killed. With heavy hearts, they left their totally rad, glow-in-the-dark palace in the capital city of Pais (I promise, it's Pais, Fance, and this is all real), my mother clutching an infant me. The leader of the marmosets stopped my mother on the way out the door. "No" he hissed, gesturing to my tender and delicious infant-skull. "She stays with us. We need something for dinner."

"Absolutely not!" my mother said.

"Yes!" hissed the marmoset.

"Okay, fine. But let me say goodbye." my mother said. "Let me go say goodbye over there, in that boat headed for Canada."

"Sure." the marmoset said amiably. "I don't see any problem with that."

Moments later, my mother returned and handed the marmoset leader a bundle. Then she bowed to him, and ran as fast as her fleet feet could carry her, away into the night. The marmoset unwrapped the bundle, and discovered not a delicious baby, but a half-eaten sandwich. "Nooooo!" the marmoset leader squeaked. "My meal is on that boat! And it's sailing away! Damn you Queen of Fance!" And then he did a little dance of anger. And then he thought about it for a while and ate the sandwich, and it gave him heartburn and he burped a little. And then he swore revenge.

Meanwhile, on the boat, there was a baby, and that baby was me! I wish I could tell you about all the grand times I had as a pirate on the high seas, and about how I fought men ten times bigger and meaner than me- but I was just a baby, so probably none of that stuff happened. I probably just ate and pooped.

The boat sailed on for many days and many nights, and then it finally arrived in Halifax, where it promptly grew legs and lumbered on to Manitoba, where I was "born". One of my parents' faithful servants had also stowed away on board the ship, and when we arrived, he arranged for a local family to take me in. Then he disappeared forever. Or so we thought!!

My life after that was pretty normal. But deep in my heart, I always felt a longing. It was a dull ache, like homesickness on the last day of camp when you know you're just about to go home and get a Slurpee and take your first bath in weeks. And that ache was always there. Until the day I turned eighteen, on July 13th, 2000.

That day began as many others before it. I had fallen asleep crying, and worrying if tonight was the night my anorexic sister died in her sleep. I woke up with a feeling of dread and went for my usual swim at the Pan-Am Pool. After my swim, I was refreshed, and decided to go to Grant Park to see if McNally Robinson had any good books about robots with fangs, or psychic dogs (my favourite topics, and my intended area of study once I was admitted to the University of Winnipeg).

Perusing the aisles of my favourite local bookseller, I could not shake the feeling that I was being watched. And indeed I was! As I pulled the book "Spot: The Dog Who Can See the Future" off the shelf, I suddenly saw a great orange eye staring back at me! I shrieked in horror and the eye blinked a couple of times. Then the eye disappeared. Then there was another orange eye. And then a claw poking through the shelf, and then a scrap of paper. The orange eye blinked at me as if to say "Pick it up and read it, dummy.", so I did just that.

Did you know that you are heir to the thone of Fance?

The note began. "What horrible spelling mistakes!" I mused, much like you did at the beginning of this adventure. And also, "There's no such place as Fance!"

Suddenly, I heard the clearing of a throat, and I looked up. It was the owner of the orange eyes, staring intently at me. He was wearing a waistcoat and a top hat. And he was a six foot tall owl.

"It's true!" he warbled "I am a six foot tall owl! And I read minds! And you are the heir to the thone of Fance! I was once the servant of your parents, the King and Queen of Fance! The country needs you, and more importantly, you need to see your country! Come with me! If you dare!"

Without a moment's hesitation, a grabbed a fistful of quills, and said "Let us away!". There was a great flutter and a fair amount of screaming when the patrons of McNally Robinson realized the gentleman in the waist-coat was actually a six-foot tall owl. With no regard for human life, we smashed through the skylight of the bookstore. Actually, I grabbed a cheesecake from the cafe first for sustenance, but you don't need to know what a gluttonous beast I am. Ha!

We flew for a day and a night, and a night and a day, and time seemed to stand still and some other mystical things happened along the way which I am not permitted to tell you about by the order of the Mystical Being Who Controls the Sea Beasts (I've already said too much, ask no more!). And at the end of the second day, which may have also been at night, the clouds parted, and below me I could see the glimmering countryside of Fance.

"It's beautiful!" I breathed.

"'Tis," said the owl, whom I had nicknamed "Flappy". He didn't seem to like the name, nor did he seem to mind it. I was trying to think of something better, but then I was distracted by the lush greenery of Fance. We landed in a small clearing. In this distance I could see a rad, glow-in-the-dark-castle. Flappy gestured to it with his wing. "That is your rightful home." he said. "Do I get HBO?" I asked. "Oh yes," he replied. "You get Super-HBO which has more swearing and nudity than regular HBO."

"So let's go!" I said, breaking into a run. Flappy flapped after me. "Not so fast." he said. "Fance has been overrun by super-intelligent marmosets these past eighteen years. The leader of the marmosets lives there. I'm sure he's made a horrible mess of the place. And he also may want to kill you."

I stopped short, and dug through my pockets until I found what I had been searching for. In my studies on robots with fangs and psychic dogs, I had also come across a small book about super-intelligent marmosets. It was so small that it fit easily in my pocket, and I often kept it on me should I ever need a topic of conversation at boring high school parties where people were often making out and listening to Keith Sweat. The book included a chapter on the weaknesses of super-intelligent marmosets. I flipped through the tiny tome until I came to that very chapter.

"Here we go!" I exclaimed. "Marmosets hate love! All I have to do is march in there and tell the leader of the marmosets that I love him!" And with that, I marched with confidence towards the castle. As I went, I admired the forest. Its ground was littered with rubies, as ripe and as round as apples. Exotic birds alighted on the branches of what appeared to be cedar trees, and sang the oeuvre of James Taylor. You have never heard "Fire and Rain" until you have heard it sung by a hot-pink bird of Fance.

I crossed the draw-bridge of the glow-in-the-dark castle, Flappy close behind me. I knocked on the massive door and waited. Inside, I heard a scrabbling sound. The television was turned up to a very high volume, and I could hear that it was playing an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, but there were more swears than usual. A shiver went down my spine. The leader of the marmosets was in there watching Super-HBO. MY Super-HBO. On MY awesome flat-screen television. What other wonders could this castle hold? A fountain of gravy? A magic ape that granted wishes? A jar of olives so big that not even God himself could eat all of the olives? My anticipation grew. The door creaked open.

"What?" said a squeaky voice.

"Hello. I'm here to bring you love." I said.

The door swung fully open and I stood face to face with a horrified-looking marmoset. "What did you say?" he breathed.

"I have some love here. It's for you. Would you care for some?"

"Everyone knows marmosets hate love! How dare you! How dare you! WHO ARE YOU?" the marmoset screamed, his eyes growing hot.

"I am the rightful heir to the thone of Fance. And I love you." I answered calmly.

"Nooooooooooooo!" the marmoset screamed, and writhed in agony. And then I scooped up his furry body in my arms and gave him a hug. He clawed free, then made a high-pitched whistling sound. There was a great commotion as every single marmoset in Fance left at once. Then silence.

"You've done it!" whispered Flappy with a certain amount of awe. "You have banished the marmosets!"

The next few days were a flurry of celebration for the people of Fance, my subjects. And of course they all wanted to congratulate me on my victory in banishing the marmosets, and to place elaborate gifts of cheesecake and handmade pottery at my feet. But once I had time to myself, I was able to explore the many charms of this mysterious land. I picked jelly-beans from the jelly-bean bushes that lined the picturesque country roads. I swam in a lake that would automatically adjust its temperature to your mood. I visited Povence, in the south, where the food is so unbelievable that you collapse from pleasure every night and dream of magical fish that tell you the secrets of the universe. And you awaken- smarter, fitter, better than you were before. Even though you were quite good before because you've done lots of walking in Fance and your glutes are looking TONED! And you've also visited the library in Fance which is so good that the books read to you!

I spent the next six months in Fance, lounging, ruling, polishing my scepter, and watching countless hours of Super-HBO. But then it all came to an end. The marmosets developed love-resistant suits and came back to Fance with a vengeance. I narrowly escaped with my life, which I owe to Flappy for his bravery. Sadly, Flappy passed away from sheer grief when we stopped to rest on the islands of Fiji. He knew full well that he would never again look upon his beloved Fance. I half-heartedly tried to convince him that we would, and that we could return, and once again vanquish our foes.

"No." Flappy said. "I am too old. Did you know that I'm like, a thousand? It's true. Giant owls live a long time. I've seen some crazy stuff."

"I didn't know that." I said, tears sliding down my cheeks. I held Flappy's giant-owl body in my arms, and he closed his eyes peacefully.

I took a plane home, and told everyone I had gone to New Zealand to pick apples. Everyone believed me because everyone I knew was gullible, and they scarcely wanted to pay attention to me anyhow. There was a new band named Coldplay that was tearing up the charts with their single, "Yellow". When I tried to tell a half-hearted lie about Auckland, that song would always come on the radio and I would be shushed.

Somehow, outside of Fance, the world seem darker, dimmer. I almost wished that I had never gone there at all, and that I had run screaming from McNally Robinson like any normal person would have done when faced with a six-foot owl. But then I would never have been able to identify that nagging ache in my soul, the one that told me that my true home awaited. And now I have seen it, and know what I long for. It is a delicious agony. Knowing that in Fance, on Super-HBO, the characters in True Blood are even more naked than they normally are, but you cannot see it because some damn marmoset is living in your rad glow-in-the-dark castle and making an awful mess of the place. It is a keen sting.

I do not know if I will ever return to Fance. I have a job now. And a purse, like a real grown-up lady! There's gum in it, do you want some? Perhaps I will leave it to my own children- or barring that possibility, my faithful basset hound- to return to Fance and invent some sort of laser beam that penetrates the love-resistant suits of the marmosets. I can only hope that they are born with the same longing, deep in their hearts. That same homesick ache. And that when they sleep, they dream of Fance. Always Fance.

THE END

Except I never met my real parents, the King and Queen of Fance. That's kind of an odd loose end, don't you think? Perhaps there is MORE to this STORY than you KNOW!

*It is also very strange that YOU knew the surname of the royal family of Fance. Is there something YOU are not telling ME?!

Diet Lunches

2010-08-12T13:51:00.002-04:00

-Celery and tears

-Diet Coke and shame

-A single cracker smeared with remorse

-Put on Spanx and don't eat

-"Nutrition"

-Two grapes and a peanut, followed by 700 sit-ups

-The thought of cake and plummeting self-esteem

-"Thinspiration" photos and nothing

Clip-Art Party

2010-07-12T12:12:00.001-04:00

The Evening's Entertainment

2010-06-25T16:29:00.002-04:00

Doug, the Duck Who Always Says the Wrong Thing

2010-06-25T10:05:00.001-04:00

Disappointing Old Timey Beach Day

2010-06-16T17:18:00.002-04:00

Disappointing Picnic

2010-06-16T17:09:00.001-04:00

Sip

2010-06-04T17:22:00.002-04:00

While I am Away

2010-06-04T17:13:00.002-04:00

Clothes and Sad Stories*

2010-06-02T14:43:00.006-04:00

From as far back as I can remember....

5 Years Old:
I had a propensity to dress like a boy. I hated pink. My mom made me a pair of Hawaiian print shorts, which I wore constantly, along with my soccer team t-shirt. I sported both a mushroom cut and a rat-tail. Once, I went to Wheelie's roller rink, and a small girl refused to let me into the girls' washroom. "This is the girls' room" she insisted, "You're a boy."

7 Years Old:
I had a New Kids on the Block backpack, and running shoes. I frequently wore a mint green sweat-suit. I did not like jeans. I don't think I even owned a pair.

8 Years Old:
Fluorescent was the big trend. I wore a lot of neon green. Never pink. My sister would get pink, and I would get green. I also had a neon orange and black spandex short and top combo. The shorts were leopard print. I wore it skating in Stanley Park.

9 Years Old:
The summer before 4th grade, I moved to a new neighbourhood. My next door neighbour was a girl my age and went to the school I would be attending in the fall. I asked her if there were any boys in the class that might like me and might want to go out with me. She thought for a moment, and then said "Mason Polakoff."

"Mason Polakoff" I whispered to myself. "I wonder if Mason will like this" became my mantra when I was school clothes shopping that August. I picked out turtlenecks, thinking them to be the height of sophistication. Turquoise. Saffron yellow. And a pair of corduroy paisley-print culottes to match. Culottes were great, because I hated skirts. Far too feminine.

When I arrived at Robert H. Smith Elementary school that fall, I realized I was not going to fit in. My Sears duds seemed cheap next to my contemporaries' Gap Kids threads. And Mason Polakoff? He called me "Lindsay Grunt" on the first day, and didn't stop making fun of me until elementary school was through.

10 Years Old:
I begged my mom to buy me a bowler hat. I thought bowler hats were really cool. I wore my bowler hat to school on the first day. That bowler hat was knocked off my head and stolen a lot. I was teased. It was a bad scene. I also got glasses that year, forever marking me as a nerd. Or maybe it was the bowler hat that did that.

11 Years Old
Gap Kids still ruled supreme. I preferred Northern Getaway. You'd walk into the store and feel like you had been transported to a glamourous sleep-away camp (sleep-away camp was glamourous to me, because I had never been). Mostly because it was decorated with wood and canoes and fake pine trees. For those of you unfamiliar with the store, it carried a lot of sweatshirts with wolves and bears on them. No hint of irony. I wore those sweatshirts. Most of the kids in my class had outgrown Northern Getaway by 5th grade, but I held on long into my preteen years. Which earned me lots of teasing.

On a family vacation to Newfoundland, our car was stolen mid-way, in Kanata, Ontario. "Those fuckers!" my father screamed, his tear-filled eyes cast skywards. More tears when the car turned up in an impound lot. My birthday present, a Nutcracker Rat King music box, unwrapped! "Happy birthday" my step-mother sobbed. And the only suitcase missing? Mine. At the start of the trip, my father had decided we would leave our suitcases in the car and bring only a change of clothes into the motel. My suitcase was the only one with the lock. It probably made it more appealing to the thieves. I had to buy all new clothes at the Avalon Mall in St. John's, Newfoundland. They did NOT have Northern Getaway. I was NOT impressed.

Then I got my period for the first time, somewhere around Middlebury, Michigan, and had to tell my stepmother. And when I got home, my mother threw her arms around my neck and told me she was sorry, and that my bike had been stolen. But I digress.

12 Years Old
The summer before junior high, I saw a revolutionary movie that changed my life. That movie was Clueless. Cher Horowitz had style, confidence, grace. All qualities that I lacked. I sat down with my Seventeen Magazine, a strawberry-kiwi Snapple, and a bag of peanut butter M&M's and made a list of things I wanted, needed, absolutely had to have for back-to-school. A pair of brown corduroy overalls, yes (don't ask me how I thought these were Cher-like)! An argyle dress, fab! Chunky platform shoes, how could I live without them? And thigh high stockings. In every colour. And a black poor-boy cap (because I had not yet learned my lesson about hats, apparently).

I showed up on the first day of seventh grade, very hot (temperature-wise) in my wooly argyle dress. They ate me alive. The ninth graders in the Nirvana T-shirts, the word GWAR written on their canvas bags, their ratty black Chuck Taylors. Of course someone stole my hat. And my agenda planner. And like the sad-sack that I was, I played the viola in the school orchestra.

13 Years Old

"I will be popular this year" I wrote in my diary. I did all my back-to-school shopping at Le Chateau. I got contact lenses. I was finally going to be pretty. I stomped down the hall in my high-heeled jelly sandals and my probably-too-mature outfit and just dared the cool girls not to like me. They didn't. They called me Le Chateau Girl. And some worse stuff. My stomp became more of a shuffle. I clutched my binder to my chest in the frigid Winnipeg winter. My flimsy shirts were no match for a new condition I had developed: nippin' out.

"Fine." I thought in the spring. "They're going to make fun of me, I'll give them something to make fun of." (I sound like a super-confident teenager, but I think being rejected by the cool girls- all of whom wore polo shirts they found at Value Village and ratty old cords- was kind of devastating). I hit Value Village with a vengeance. If it was ugly and bright and ridiculous, I bought it. And I wore it. A crazy Hawaiian shirt. A polyester houndstooth check jacket in yellow, cream and beige. A 7-11 jacket (literally, a jacket of a 7-11 employee, the name VAL proudly embroidered on the sleeve). A very short, plaid, faux fur skirt (yes, all those things WERE combined in one garment, and it was magical). Silver boots with matching silver backpack. "You look like a girl from a Pulp music video" one girl breathed admiringly. Because I looked like common people?

That summer, I dyed a blue streak in my hair and rented an electric guitar from Long and McQuade.

14 Years Old
I still rocked Value Village, but another village beckoned. I finally considered myself cool and "alternative" enough to shop in Osborne Village, a funky neighbourhood in Winnipeg. I bought a t-shirt with Samantha from Bewitched on it. And wore it pretty much every day in the ninth grade. I wore a chain around my neck. I wore a Girl Scout t-shirt ironically. I still had the blue streak. I painted my nails black, purple, white, yellow. I was too cool to wear a warm winter jacket. I was too cool for wood shop. I was generally just too cool.

15 Years Old
"I'm finally going to be respectable and stop dressing like a freak." I resolved. I fled to the Gap and did not return for a long while. My sister's Adidas track pants got looser and looser.

17 Years Old
I think I wore my boyfriends' Abercrombie and Fitch hat, with my hair up in a ponytail pretty much every day that year. I retreated inside huge sweaters. My anorexic sister wore tube tops, and platform boots that made her legs resemble those of a young colt. I watched her go out to raves wearing things she commanded my mother to sew. Costumes. We all wanted to hide something. Ourselves.

18 Years Old
I was going to New Zealand for a gap year, and I decided the most sensible thing to do would be to dress like a surfer. So I did. I still miss dressing like that. It was comfy as hell.

19 Years Old
I returned from New Zealand about 25 pounds heavier. Back to my giant sweaters. I also worked night and day as a casting director that year, and earned myself the princely sum of $10,000 for a solid two months of work. I promptly took nine months off, and roamed the mall nearly every day, aimlessly shopping. I bought a really horrible green t-shirt and wore it to an on-camera acting class. "Never wear that colour again." my acting teacher spat. I think I may have tried to start dressing like Avril Lavigne... studded leather belts, black t-shirts, a Dickies plaid skirt. Never tell anyone that.

21 Years Old
I moved to Toronto and started working in a clothing store. A very upscale clothing store. It became very clear that my meagre collection of "nice" clothes was not going to cut it. "Maybe I'll buy something from the store" I thought. I turned over a price tag on a Juicy Couture cashmere sweater. $295. I backed away slowly.

The same year, I won $500 from a radio contest. I bought myself a black twill Juicy Couture jacket and matching pleated skirt. I bought hot pink heels and catted about like I was Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls. "You're too sexy for me" was the excuse one fellow gave me when I asked him why he didn't want to be my boyfriend. "But I love you." I said. "Thank you." he replied.

22-25 Years Old
I made sweet cash as a shopgirl, no doubt about that. I am not even being sarcastic. I shopped at work, I shopped after work, I shopped on the weekend. I lost weight. A lot of weight. "Quit losing weight!" my then-boyfriend would whisper to me as he slipped his arms around my waist at my front door.

I wore black because it was easy and it looked polished and sophisticated. I straightened my hair every day. Nothing could be out of place. I felt like I was under constant scrutiny at the shop. Ladies with perfect hair and nails and skin and clothes would flick their eyes in my direction and sneer. "I'd like to deal with your manager, please." they'd say. "I think your tastes are a bit young. You can't possibly help me dress." I would grit my teeth.

"Here, you like ice cream, right? I mean, you look like you like ice cream" the passive-aggressive owner of the store would say, handing me a coupon for Dairy Queen. "I can't eat the stuff. Makes me gain weight. But you go ahead. You take this coupon. You take it and eat ice cream". His subtext was this: "Fatty, fatty eats-a-lot!"

I starved. I starved myself all the way down to a size 27 pair of Seven Jeans. And oh, it felt good when they fit. My then-boyfriend failed to notice me at all. Except when he wrinkled his nose and said "quit wearing so much black" and "quit straightening your hair. Why don't you wear your hair like Aurora Browne?"

26 Years Old
In the middle of a break-up, I found a letter that my then-boyfriend had written to himself. It was private. I shouldn't have looked at it. "Why Do I Love Her?" was the title. "I wish she would wear more bright colours, to show off her beautiful personality" he wrote, along with some other, less kind things that I wish to God I had never read. Self-esteem shattering things. Things you think to yourself in your darkest, most self-defeating moments, and you pray that no one else thinks those things too, least of all the man that says he loves you.

I retreated to Winnipeg. My mother took me shopping for my birthday and, I suspect, to cheer me up. "He wants bright colours?" I thought. I grabbed everything bright off the rack. Green, blue, red, purple... colours I hadn't looked at for years. "He'll have to see." I thought. "He'll have to love me again."

I wore a royal blue tank top and a short black skirt to a Radiohead concert that August. It was freezing and rainy. I smoked some illegal drugs and stood on a hill stoically while my on-again-off-again-on-again boyfriend bounced excitedly beside me. "I am the Queen of Sorrow" I thought, and envisioned myself wearing a crown of blue, fluorescent light. He bought a t-shirt emblazoned with the words "You used to be alright. What happened?"

The relationship ended despite my best efforts. I scarcely wear any of the clothes I bought that summer. They sit in my drawer and smell vaguely of sadness.

27 Years Old
I don't really know how to dress anymore. My workplace is casual and I make less money now than I ever have. A friend of mine calls my look "slob chic". I call it lazy. "I can't believe it only takes you five minutes to get ready for work," my sister says "You used to care so much about your appearance."

I go to stores at lunch and look around. "Clothes won't make me pretty" I mutter to myself. "Clothes won't get me friends. Clothes won't get me love.", or worse: "I just DON'T UNDERSTAND CLOTHES ANYMORE!" More often than not, I leave, empty-handed. Sometimes when I feel sad or out-of-sorts, I'll buy something. I wear it twice and then it hangs in the closet. "Why did I buy that?" I wonder. It's like I was possessed by a demon with very little idea of how to dress a classic, hourglass figure.

But then... Tom smiles when I come out of the dressing room wearing a green dress, bought for my cousin David's wedding. Tom smiles when I come out of the dressing room in a coral dress, bought just because it was a beautiful summer day. I could walk out of a dressing room wearing a paper bag full of dog-vomit and Tom would smile.

"My hair sucks today!" I groan. "I like it!" Tom says. "I hate what I'm wearing!" I exclaim. "You look great. You look better than great. You look wonderful." he'll answer, and not in that "I'm humouring my stupid girlfriend" kind of way. I can't make a mistake with him. Because he loves me.

*inspired by a conversation with Steacy, who is cute, and is a snappy dresser.

The Civilized End of the Dinosaurs

2010-05-18T16:23:00.000-04:00

The Happy Seal

2010-05-18T15:49:00.001-04:00

Sea Phone

2010-05-18T15:38:00.002-04:00

Scenes from "Psychic President", The Worst Screenplay Ever*

2010-05-12T13:44:00.005-04:00

INT. OVAL OFFICE- DAY

A long pan over the oval office. On the couch in the corner, we see PRESIDENT MOORE, lanky, somewhat handsome. He is asleep, clutching a picture of a woman in a pillbox hat and Chanel suit. In his sleep, he mumbles.

PRESIDENT MOORE
Jennifer, no! Don't leave me!

INT. LAB- DAY- DREAM SEQUENCE

A ghostly, translucent version of President Moore looks over the shoulder of JENNIFER, the woman in the pillbox hat. She wears a lab coat and goggles, and is bent over a microscope. She mumbles to herself as she works.

JENNIFER
So, AIDS really was unleashed by the US government as a plot to...

There is a ticking sound, and a snap. Jennifer looks up, panic slowly setting in. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees someone running away, into the darkness.

JENNIFER
Oh, it was probably just a squirrel.
Or the Illuminati. Or something.

Suddenly, the lab explodes. It's a mess of beakers and test tubes. Jennifer turns into a fire-skeleton. The ghostly President Moore screams.

PRESIDENT MOORE
Oh no! My hot wife is dead!

INT. OVAL OFFICE, DAY

President Moore wakes up, gasping for breath.

PRESIDENT MOORE
What did I just see?!

He strides across the office purposefully. At his desk, he straightens his tie and picks up the phone.

PRESIDENT MOORE
Johnson, get me the head of the FBI. You heard me. I
just had a psychic vision. My wife wasn't killed in an
accident. She was murdered! And please, get me a sandwich.

INT. JOHNSON'S OFFICE- DAY

JOHNSON, a wormy guy in an expensive suit sits at his desk, an expression of bored contempt on his face. In the corner of the room, a shadowy figure lurks.

JOHNSON
Yes Mr. President. Okay. A psychic vision.
A turkey sandwich. Of course.

He hangs up swiftly.

JOHNSON
I hate that guy. I can't believe he got elected. And
that I'm the Vice President. How about that?
Pretty ironic, huh? Huh?

He laughs nervously. The shadowy figure emerges from the corner. He is tall, thin and pale, and wears a black trench coat.

THIN MAN
Did you say the president had a psychic vision?

JOHNSON
He's probably just under a lot of pressure.

THIN MAN
Silence! Do you know what this means?

JOHNSON
Am I allowed to speak now?

THIN MAN
NO! The president's secret remote viewing training
is taking effect. And once he realizes we were behind
the death of his wife, he'll have us executed.

JOHNSON
Why did we give the president secret remote
viewing training in the first place? We must
have known this was going to come back and
bite us on the ass one day. Seriously.

THIN MAN
It was the seventies. We were all high.
It's too late for those thoughts now...
Now that the President can probably read our
minds. We need to kill him. KILL HIM!
Oh, by the way, I am a robot. It's a secret.

JOHNSON
Nice. I am a sex addict. I also eat four bags
of peanut M&Ms every day. Then I put on
an ape suit and dance to Cyndi Lauper.

THIN MAN
I watch horse porn.

JOHNSON
Cool. We're evil.

THIN MAN
Yes.

The two men laugh maniacally.

INT. OVAL OFFICE- DAY

President Moore paces back and forth.

PRESIDENT MOORE
Boy, that was a horrifying dream. Good thing
I have such loyal staff around me.

Suddenly, there is a flash of white light, and the conversation between Johnson and the thin man is replayed. Moore winces at "Hate that guy... we need to kill him... horse porn!"

Moore falls to his knees and screams.

PRESIDENT MOORE
No! A horrifying psychic vision! This is the
fucking worst thing ever! Why was I born?
Dammit, I think I'll just eat poison and die!

There is a knock at the door. JANE RIVERA, head of the FBI enters. She is petite, wearing a sharp suit and sensible shoes.

JANE RIVERA
Is everything alright, Mr. President?

PRESIDENT MOORE
Ghastly visions of the past and present.

JANE RIVERA
You're clearly insane.

She shifts uncomfortably. A pillbox hat falls out of her pocket.

PRESIDENT MOORE
Wait, wait, I can see the future!

CUT TO:

EXT. WASHINGTON MONUMENT- DAY

Jane Rivera shoots President Moore in the head. He falls slowly and then slumps against the monument.

JANE RIVERA
You didn't see that coming did you,
Psychic President?

Jane laughs as she walks away.

CUT TO:

INT. OVAL OFFICE- DAY

President Moore is curled up in the fetal position while Rivera tries to revive him.

JANE RIVERA
Mr. President? Mr. President?

PRESIDENT MOORE
You're the one who kills me, Rivera.
It was you all along. You killed my Jennifer.
You robbed this country of its sexiest First Lady ever.
Also, I was just about to bring about world peace.
You're a big bitch, you know that? A BITCH!

JANE RIVERA
Vice President Johnson used secret mind control on me!
And I was your wife in another life.
Oh, and Guess what? I'm secretly
an Incan mummy from space!

She lights herself on fire and the whole White House goes up in flames.

PRESIDENT MOORE
I never got my sandwich!

A siren splits the silence of the night.

*So obviously, this will be coming soon to a theatre near you.

I've Forgotten Your Name

2010-05-11T09:28:00.003-04:00

"I've forgotten your name!" she says apologetically. We both laugh.

"It's okay. It's Lindsay." I say, smiling.

"Phew! Okay, I will never forget your name again." she says, and shuts her office door.

CUT TO EVERY MORNING SINCE:

"Hi Steacy!" she says brightly.

I just smile and nod.

A Heartwarming Commercial for Fake Moustaches*

2010-05-10T15:26:00.004-04:00

INT. OFFICE- DAY

A harried, middle aged woman on the phone at her messy desk. She clears some papers away to reveal a photo of three boys. Her face softens momentarily, but quickly switches back to frustration.

WOMAN
I don't care! Don't screw this up!

CUT TO:

INT. SHABBY APARTMENT- DAY

An eighteen year old boy on his couch, surrounded by pizza boxes and ladies underwear. He is on his cell, a pained expression on his face.

BOY
Okay mom. I won't.

CUT TO:

INT. OFFICE- DAY

WOMAN
Just go see your brother, okay?

INT. JOKE SHOP- DAY

The teenage boy shuffles around a joke shop, half-heartedly searching for something... anything. Suddenly, his eyes light up and he grabs a bushy, fake moustache from a display.

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM- DAY

A tiny five year old boy is curled up in a hospital bed, tubes and wires curling all around his slight frame. An eight year old boy, wise beyond his years, keeps a solitary vigil in a rocking chair at the side of the bed.

Suddenly, the eighteen year old bursts in wearing a fake moustache. The two younger boys look confused.

BOY
Too bad I could only afford...

He whips out two more fake moustaches.

BOY (CONT)
Three of them!

The two younger boys cheer in delight. They don the moustaches and begin "horsing around".

NARRATOR (V/O)

Fake moustaches. And inexpensive
way to cheer the terminally ill.

*This commercial should never be made. Never.

Letters to a Horrible Monster

2010-05-07T16:46:00.006-04:00

Dear Horrible Monster,

My mother and I just don't seem to get along. Is there any way I can win her over, once and for all?

Signed,

Nina

DEAR NINA,

DO YOU FEEL THE HOT BREATH ON THE BACK OF YOUR NECK? THAT IS ME. IF YOU TURN AROUND AND GAZE INTO MY MULTITUDINOUS EYES, YOU WILL MOST CERTAINLY CHOKE ON YOUR OWN INSANITY AND DIE INSTANTLY.

Dear Horrible Monster,

I've fallen out with a friend over something really stupid, and yet I can't bring myself to apologize. Should I just let it go, or swallow my pride?

Signed,

Mary-Ann

DEAR MARY-ANN,

LET ME BAKE YOU A CAKE MADE OF FEAR AND YOUR FEMUR. I FEEL YOUR DESPAIR AND IT SHARPENS MY CLAWS. YOUR BRAIN WILL BE A DELICIOUS AFTER-DINNER MINT. YUM.

Dear Horrible Monster,

My neighbours refuse to trim their hedges. It is very unsightly. I've told them numerous times that they are bringing down the property values of the neighbourhood due to their shoddy landscaping, but they won't listen! What do I do?

Signed,

Chas

DEAR CHAS,

I WILL RIP YOUR SKIN INTO A MILLION PIECES AND USE IT AS A GHASTLY CONFETTI IN MY RAGE PARADE. I AM ALL DRIPPING TEETH AND YOU ARE WORTHLESS, TREMBLING FLESH. SUCCUMB TO YOUR DEATH IN MY JAWS.

Dear Horrible Monster,

I'm getting really bad grades in school, and I'm afraid to tell my parents because they've been footing the bill. Should I come clean?

Signed,

Mort

DEAR MORT,

THERE IS A FLASH OF SEARING PAIN, AND THEN THE SLOW, SICKENING REALIZATION THAT I HAVE JUST SUCKED YOUR HEART OUT OF YOUR CHEST. DO YOU HEAR THAT NOISE? THAT IS YOU, HALFWAY BETWEEN A SOB AND A SCREAM. I HAVE BROKEN YOU.

Horrible Monster's Thought of the Day:

BE GOOD TO THE ELDERLY. YOUR TENDER FLESH WILL SERVE AS A LOVELY BLANKET TO ME ON CHILLY NIGHTS. I HAVE FEASTED ON THE ORGANS OF EVERYONE YOU'VE EVER LOVED. PEACE.

Lonely

2010-05-06T16:12:00.002-04:00

No really. Really.

Horse Time

2010-05-06T15:43:00.002-04:00

Pornos Not Worth Renting

2010-05-06T14:41:00.003-04:00

Dirty Chair on Chair Action

Slutty Co-Ed Mothballs

Hot Hot XXX Oboes

Inbox- Starring All of the Bots That Send You Spam

Lint Gone Wild

Oh, the Crap I Could Make!

2010-05-05T09:26:00.003-04:00

Last night, as I lay in bed, wonky on cold meds and a beverage I like to call "The Pirate's Booty" (two shots of rum in some hot water with three slices of lemon and a teaspoon of Roger's Golden Syrup, consumed in lieu of actual cough medicine), I started thinking about all the stuff I could make if I had more free time.

For instance, I had the brilliant idea that I should make pillows, shaped like angry gorillas, like this:

But instead of a real mouth, it would have a big red cartoon mouth, so it's like, less threatening, and you won't have gorilla nightmares when you're trying to go to sleep, cozied up to your gorilla pillow (side note: I have actually had night terrors involving a man in a gorilla suit, standing at the foot of my bed, poised to rape!). I could sell them at the zoo for $85 a pop. People would come from miles around for their very own gorilla pillow. Their scarcity (because I'd only make a limited number, and each would come with a certificate of authenticity) would guarantee bidding wars, riots, famine, the eventual destruction of the human race.

However, making gorilla pillows would involve sewing, and being good at sewing, and I can't even sew a button without stabbing myself in the hand and crying like a girl. So I have think of another money-making venture.

What if I made snow globes? But snow globes that contain things that should never be in snow? With some sort of inspirational message inside? I imagined my prototype- a velociraptor, set against a bright banner, the words "YOU'RE SUCH AN ASSHOLE" in a lovely cursive script emblazoned across it. And beautiful flakes of fake snow falling elegantly, all around. Gorgeous. A gift to be treasured for all time, displayed proudly in a place of honour. Perhaps on a mantle, above a roaring fire. Or you could build a special cabinet just for this one snow globe. When friends or relatives visit, you could shush them all, and get very serious and say "I want you to see something that will probably change your life. Because I know it changed mine", and then show them the globe in its special cabinet. "Oh!" they'd gasp, and you'd just nod smugly. "It's almost as though it is lit from within! What strange devilry is this?" and you'll roll your eyes at your unsophisticated, globe-less guests. And then they'd get really jealous and probably murder you in your sleep so that they can possess the globe for themselves. Mwahahahahaha.... ahem.

But then, how do you make a snow globe? Isn't the stuff inside snow globes completely poisonous? And that's why it has to be captured inside snow globes? Because it's just too toxic to humans to let that goo run wild and free? I picture snow-globe manufacturing: two men in hazmat suits, sweat dripping down their faces, too tense to speak, oh-so-delicately placing the last tiny deer on a winter landscape. They gingerly screw the base to the globe. Careful, careful...

"Fuck, we've sprung a leak!" one of them cries out. Alarms sound. Blast doors close. The men look at each other in despair. They've been contaminated. Neither of them will ever see the sun or breathe the sweet air of the great outdoors again.

I don't particularly want to spend the rest of my life in quarantine. It's just a fact. I like the outdoors too much. So I think hard. Really hard. Speaking of which, sex sells, right? So, what if I made a line of jewelry that is strictly for women's nethers? VAGINA JEWELRY™. Why shouldn't you feel pretty down there? I think of the perfect box (pardon the pun.... NO, don't pardon it! I went there) for VAGINA JEWELRY™: hot pink velvet with VAGINA JEWELRY™ embossed on the top in gold. The box is clam-shaped, feminine, slightly mysterious. It is difficult to get in to, but once the lid snaps open, you see the inside is lined with only the most luxurious of pink silks. Porn stars would clamour for VAGINA JEWELRY™. Lonely pervs would buy it in the hopes that they'd have someone to give it to one day. Meek, mousy housewives would don VAGINA JEWELRY™ under their massive panties and shapeless bathrobes, and would carry themselves with a certain dignity that before now they had not possessed.

But then I have to face the possibility that this product would actually be successful. And I don't know if I want to live in a world where I turn on the Home Shopping Network, and someone with massive teeth and a lot of blond hair is trying to convince me that my vagina is just so plain and like, needs a little something. Even if that something happens to be my own invention, and every sale guarantees another square foot in my massive beach house. I just can't do it. I have a soul, and that soul cries out "Leave my pussy alone!"

Even so, hands off the VAGINA JEWELRY™ idea. I may sell out one day, or hit rock bottom so bad that I wouldn't care so much about my values (you can't eat values). So yeah. That one's mine. Dibs.

Sharks Are Rad

2010-05-04T13:04:00.001-04:00

Dream Snippets

2010-05-04T10:34:00.004-04:00

I'm on the streetcar and I see someone I know, nursing their newborn baby. I don't really want to say hi, but it's too late. She's already seen me. "Hi" I say sheepishly to the dream woman. Her baby turns to me, all dark brown skin and carrot-y coloured eyebrows. The baby begins to speak to me in full sentences. "You should get that checked out" I caution the dream lady.

I'm at an engagement party. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone that I rather wish was not at the party. She burps loudly in the middle of the groom-to-be's speech. I stand up, screaming: "Mind your FUCKING MANNERS!"

I'm looking out my window, and it seems like I'm in a tropical paradise. Suddenly, a man in his underpants rollerblades by. He seems kind of pissed off. He stops, looks around to see that no one is watching, and drops his underpants. He swings away on a vine. I climb out my window and steal the underpants.

Young prince Max lives in fear and awe of the rat people, who occasionally emerge from the sewer to visit him, and shock him with tales of life underground. Only his beautiful, blond, princess sister protects him. He rides around on a shiny red bike. Their world is one of eternal dusk. One night, Max's sister is in a horrible horse and carriage accident. She falls out of her carriage onto the road, crying and bleeding. Other carriages swerve to avoid her, but carry on. She has landed near a sewer grate, and the rat people come to her rescue, pulling her underground, leaving only popcorn kernels behind. Max looks in vain for his sister. He finds the popcorn kernels and sobs: "Surely there must be more of her than this. She couldn't have turned into popcorn!". But his sister is closer than he knows. In my dream, I think "Wait a minute, this isn't how Rushmore goes!"

I buy a fluorescent yellow t-shirt, and it looks totally rad on me.

I'm Just Going to Step into Something Less Comfortable

2010-04-14T15:11:00.005-04:00

I don't often blog like an actual blogger. Mostly because I'm a ball of insecurity, and I try to let that come through in my comics as opposed to my writing. Writing is also really quite time consuming for both of us (me in the writing and re-writing, and you in the reading for two seconds before deciding your attention span is way too short for this shit). Nevertheless, I feel somewhat compelled to write an actual blog today.

My friend Jenny, who writes the very excellent blog Sneaky Milk, which you can find here, does this really cool thing where she actually blogs about stuff. Like real stuff. Real stuff that is bugging her. And Jenny's a pretty cool and mellow chick, so I suppose after she's done writing, she probably feels much better. As opposed to what I do, which is a quick comic with cute animals and lots of swears and stuff. BUT TODAY IS FUCKING DIFFERENT, screamed the adorable kitten in the frog costume.

Today is indeed quite fucking different, because today I have to pose for a fund raising calendar in my goddamn panties.

Now this is for a good cause, the HSSE is a really cool organization, and I believe in what they're doing, or I never would have signed up for this panty-party in the first place. I just kind of signed up and then forgot about it. Forgot about it or lived in complete denial and ate lots of cake. I don't know. You pick.

My underwear kind of sucks. All of it. Some of it is weird Joe Boxer stuff that my mom gets me for Christmas, with sparkly dogs on it, which really does not represent me or any aspect of my personality. The other stuff is just the ratty, comfy, everyday stuff. It's not special occasion underwear, or "Hey, I want to seduce you" underwear. It's just from Mark's Work Warehouse. I also hate buying bras. So I have only three of them, and I wear only one of these three on a consistent basis. So here I am, all leading a busy life and stuff, and I'm like "Hey, I can buy a pair of decent panties or something right before the shoot and it will be cool". Wrong. No. I should never think this way. Every time I try to go with the flow, it ends in tragedy and sobbing. I rocked on down to H&M, picked up a three pack of size six panties (since when do panties come in sizes like that, huh? That should have been my first clue that something was very, very wrong), and rushed back to work to try them on in the bathroom.

"Dammit, why are they all tied together? This is stupid. What, do they think I carry around scissors with me, like some kind of person who is prepared?" I panted as I stumbled out of my pants, simultaneously trying to pull the stitched-together panty-ball apart. Rip. I heard a rip. No, don't think about. Don't allow yourself to think that these stupid panties that you spent a whopping $14 on could be ripped already. Just pull them on desperately, like your parents have come back home early and you're in the basement getting some sweet action from your high school boyfriend.

Once on, I surveyed myself under the unflattering fluorescent light in the tiny, mostly gray room. "No. No this is not going to work. No. This is just... no. NO!". The polka dot panties, too small. The blue panties, too small. The white panties... I am not trying on a third pair of panties, and cripes, they are still all roped together like a bunch of keys on a ring. What the hell kind of size six is this? Size 6X? For children?! I am all bruised, abundant thighs, squeezed like squeezy cheese through the leg-holes. I'm pretty sure my bum is hanging out the back. My stomach... I try not to look. And if I had, I very much doubt I would have the words to describe the near-Lovecraftian horror that it was.

Now you're sitting there saying "Jesus, Lindsay. You have body dysmorphia disorder or something. I'm sure you're not that bad". Yeah, you can be quiet now. And people thinking "Well, you're beautiful on the inside" can just suck it, too. I saw what I saw. And I did not like it. And I cannot, WILL NOT be in my underpants in front of a camera tonight. NO DICE.

Panic that was somewhat close to hysteria began to set in. I wondered if it was too late to cancel. I googled "full body underwear". I happened upon this site, and was charmed by the modest fashions, and the fact the their swim wear is honestly more clothing than I've seen on the average hipster chick wearing on a fifteen degree day. They also sell matching mother/daughter outfits. Oh, and tablecloths. I usually feel better after I find a bizarre site on the internet, so I tried to think logically for a little while.

I don't have to be hot like a model to be in this calendar, right? I mean, it's called the Sexy Smart calendar. What I lack in sexy, I more than make up for in smart, no? Okay, yes, that's good. I have that going for me. Some small shred of self-confidence. Good, good, let's think positively here... I can't pussy out on this. It's too late. And the gays need me. The gays, I say! This isn't about me, or how fat (I think) I am. No! This is about people being able to walk down the halls at their school, and no one screams "Homo!" at them. Right? At the very least, I should just grit my teeth, pull down my pants, and say "Fuck it. This is for all my LGBT buddies and their right to be exactly who they are!"

Yep, that's what I'm going to tell myself right after I cry for a bit, do some crunches, spend a bunch more money I don't care to spend on some only-partially-flattering underwear-ensemble that I will probably not be able to wear again because I will look at it and feel ashamed of myself and this whole goddamn business. I'll repeat this to myself when I step out of my clothes and into something less comfortable, looking at all the other awesome ladies at the shoot and how cool and confident they seem, and wish that one day I could feel the same. I will repeat this again and again (repeatedly, even)as I try to swallow the enormous lump in my throat when I look at the pictures from the shoot and think "God, I've really let myself go".

It's all going to be worth it, right?

You see now why I should stick to comics? I told you I was a ball of insecurity.

These ladies look comfy. And clothed. I am jealous.

Donkey Sandwich

2010-04-08T12:20:00.001-04:00

What's Wrong With Your Face?

2010-04-05T10:04:00.000-04:00

Magical Singing Cobra

2010-03-18T12:44:00.001-04:00

Tiger Party

2010-03-05T13:01:00.002-05:00

Hippo Party

2010-03-05T12:53:00.000-05:00

Comics That Make You Go "What?!" 3

2010-03-01T13:04:00.002-05:00

Comics That Make You Go "What?!" 2

2010-03-01T09:07:00.001-05:00

Comics That Make You Go "What?!"

2010-03-01T09:03:00.002-05:00

Hawk vs. Wolf

2010-02-24T09:00:00.001-05:00

Salt Lick

2010-02-18T13:57:00.002-05:00

UFO

2010-01-18T23:03:00.002-05:00

Ood

2010-01-17T21:38:00.002-05:00

Food Pyramid

2010-01-11T20:42:00.002-05:00

My Back

2010-01-11T20:32:00.002-05:00

Analytics

2010-01-03T00:17:00.003-05:00

I'm honoured that two people would spend their stupid Christmases visiting my site. Thanks.

Bats

2010-01-03T00:11:00.002-05:00

New Years Resolutions

2010-01-01T19:38:00.001-05:00

Goat Balls

2010-01-01T19:29:00.002-05:00

The Angel of Wolf Death

2009-12-09T12:51:00.002-05:00

The Littlest Hobo

2009-12-09T09:11:00.003-05:00

Bacon

2009-12-08T12:53:00.001-05:00