I’ve been in Ireland for a month for university.
It’s been grand. It’s been so grand.
There have been great ups and downs, but for the love of god, it’s thanksgiving at home and I’m fecking sick of explaining to Americans that yes, we have ours in October.
Join me while I wallow in self-pity and wade through corny Canadiana while I further ignore my uni work.
The original Wayne’s World:
And the voices that were a constant in my childhood home many winter evenings:
I just want some goddamn poutine and no one in this country knows what cheese curds are.
I have a big mouth.
I can’t help myself.
I say stupid things that are risky. I enjoy ranting and sometimes people enjoy hearing me. (But really, most of them probably want to punch me in the face. I would, too)
My new resolution: Shut up. Just shut up.
You know how every time you go out drinking you spend the next day re-living all the stupid shit you said as it slowly creeps back into your memory? Oh my god how are people still friends with me?
This is a static state for me now [which may or may not have to do with how often I go out drinking. Shh.]
We need a support group, some sort of Big Mouths Anonymous where we chat about how addicted we are to the attention that delivering a mildly-amusing rant brings. But no, we can’t stop. We keep going. We want to be heard, dammit! I assume we’d all hate each other, because who likes people with big mouths?
I should print this out.
Heres to a new, quiet, spring. And no, I will not complain about the weather or the people who won’t shut the fuck up about the fact that it’s snowing in April. Yes, we know, it happens every year.
Posted in Thoughts
Tagged Conversation, Conversations, Diary, Funny, Journal, Life, Rant, Resolutions, Self Improvement, Short, Talking
With Old Navy’s recent sale on spandex capris, I thought I’d finally hit the gym after buying my pass in January. I know. Shut up.
The gym at my school is an odd one, because it’s tiny and it’s a solid half an half of students and old, rich people who live in the surrounding old, rich community.
There are even a section of treadmills labelled with imperial measurements.
(For those of you who don’t know, Canada switched to metric in the 70s, so those who went to elementary school a long time ago still usually use imperial. Including my parents. Yes, mom, there are 100cm in a metre. I wrote it down for you. It’s on the fridge.)
I’ve made some slight observations.
Good: Old people don’t check you out while you work out.
Bad: I think.
Good: I’ve realized that the elliptical is a magical machine that doesn’t make my knees want to crumble into dust when I use it.
Bad: Have you ever tried looking coordinated on an elliptical?
Good: I climbed the lovingly called “stairs of death” back up to campus without losing my breath after the gym.
Bad: The stairs of death exist.
Good: The new spandex capris and a cute t-shirt aren’t too shabby.
Bad: They are now covered in sweat forever.
So there you are. My adventures at this weird thing that humans go to as a supplement for our lazy-ass lives of leisure so we don’t die of cardiac arrest at 28 while reaching for that last slice of cheesecake.
Necessary disclaimer: Not me.
They’ve lied to us. High school was not as positive as Degrassi or as fun and good-natured as Sabrina the Teenage Witch. There was no usual “hang out” that wasn’t full of angry looking 12 grade boys trying to buy Chinese food at lunch and scaring away the local families (it happened. There were complaints. Our students were assholes.)
No. My high school was in the middle of no where, overcrowded, and run by people who thought it was more important to ensure students weren’t on their cell phones at lunch than worrying about actual learning.
No one gave a shit about the football team (this is Canada, after all, where we have yet to build a 60 million dollar football stadium for a high school) and what is school spirit? Our colours were grey, silver, and black. What a cheerful-looking crowd we would have been.
So, whatever, TV never depicts real life, unless you live in the American South, where I assume every single high school on TV is modelled after.
University matched up slightly better, taking into account the majority of students at my school commute. We have pub nights and things, woo!
Now I just hope Friends wasn’t a lie. Or GIRLS, just…you know…without the awkward nakedness.
or the awfully unflattering outfit choices by Dunham
Well, actually when bus passes in your city cost a student $106 a month and rent is at least $700 with a few roommates…it looks like my parents are going to be roommates for a while.
Hopefully no awkward nakedness.
And maybe, if I work really hard and score an actual full-time job after I graduate that’s not the retail hell my peers are stuck in, I’ll be able to almost afford a shitty apartment with a bunch of roommates. We’ll see.
Posted in Personal, Ramblings, Thoughts
Tagged Canada, Funny, High school, Home, Life, Living, Roommates, Short, Student, Television
I have forced myself to be a wine person over the past year.
My parents are not wine people. My turned-out-to-be-batshit-insane step-aunt was the only wine person in our family, until, well she left the family via batshit-insane methods.
For some reason, I associated wine with people who are grown up and successful. How am I going to hang out with my fancy educated friends and go to fancy educated dinner parties if I don’t like wine? What will I bring? Rum? It is delicious.
After stopping at the little kiosk at the front end of Loblaws a few times, one of the few non-LCBO ways to buy liquor in this over-regulated province, I finally decided I was a red wine person. Yes. White wine is gross. It stains less, but it’s gross.
It’s been a long journey of cringe-worthy beverages, but I think I’ve finally developed an actual taste for it. Yes! A small, useless success in a world of unfairness.
To be fair, I’m still at the point where my measure of taste is “does it make me gag or not?” but I’m getting there.
Simply a little window into the neurosis that invades my life.