I hate to brag, but...

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Dear Ms. -----,

Each year, the Office of the Registrar evaluates the academic performance of all students at Concordia University in order to ensure that they meet the University’s performance standards. All students are expected to maintain an annual minimum Grade Point Average of 2.00 in order to be in acceptable academic standing and to continue with their program of study. You have either satisfied or surpassed this condition, which means that you are allowed to continue your studies; your record has been updated accordingly.

We congratulate you on this achievement and wish you continued success in your studies. Concordia University is proud to count you as one of its students.

Office of the Registrar

Concordia University


Well la-di-da, lookame with my not-quite-failing GPA. Aren't I hot shit.

Concordia really knows how to make its students feel proud, really gives them a sense they've accomplished something.

Like not being a total, utter failure.

Pass the champagne.

Downward facing total bitch

I've had most of my piercings for so long it's easy to forget that they're even there, until I'm in a situation where a stranger sees me naked. Like in bed (ha!) or, as it happened tonight, the locker room at the local yoga studio.

I shower there because of the free hot water and Dr. Bronner's Peppermint Soap. Don't care if it stings the pink, it smells la-lovely. All-One or None, whatever that means. Lunatic.

Anyway, there I was toweling off, being all mature and ok with my body, when I caught a chuchotement coming from a woman standing a discreet four feet away from me. She was blow drying her cheap dye job and doing that whisper-yell thing to her friend next to her.

"les percages, check ,... [inaudible] ... l'air cochonne"

EXCUSEZ-VOUS! Un air quoi?!

Ok, lady. Just because I said I'm from Boston doesn't mean I don't understand French. (Bitch!)

And that face can be understood in any language, except blind-o.

But you know what? Whatever, Madame Salt-and-pepper Pubes. Maybe this would have riled me before, but yoga's changed me. I'm serene and shit now.

And I can see to the heart of the matter, really understand your pain and insecurity. You were just jealous because my wide-legged forward bends rocked yours rather hard.

Besides, those thighs must be karma.

NAMASTE.

Innocence

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I spent a lot of time on the beach when I was little, and one of my favorite things to do was to make sculptures out of twigs and shells and seagull feathers and whatever assorted beach debris was at hand.

I would frequently top my masterpieces with these hollow pink plastic torpedo-looking things that could always be found washed up along the tide line.

I remember how confused and angry I was when my mother would remove them (ruining it, just ruining it) while I wasn't looking.

In retrospect, I kinda wish she'd just told me.












I quite like the blowgun

Spidla on da Roof : A Paean of Praise

This post is dedicated to my much-cherished friend Carlo Spidla, who, having hocked me way up a chinik for an update, had nerve enough (the chutzpah!) to express dissatisfaction with my latest offering.

"Noo, a better update, I've already heard that one."

Oh really!

Then I read his comment on a previous post and I realized what this was all about. Kid wanted a shout-out. Sweet, naive soul. Thinks I have a readership or something.

But ask anyone who knows me, I'm all about indulging. So, fine! Here:

I love Carlo Spidla dearly, truly do. Love him so much I had to take it upon myself to relieve him of that western-style dress shirt he lent me after I got soaked through by the rain on my way to his house. It's got these pearly buttons and silvery threads, and... just didn't suit him at all. Didn't even have to see it on him, I could tell just by how good it looks on me.

Yeah, I'd do just about anything for a friend like Carlo.

If you didn't already know, Mr. Spidla is the author of some pretty steamy stuff about ebony feet. And fake Jimmy Choo bags. But that's all in a day's work. Oh yeah, and he fiddles around with music sometimes too.

But he really doesn't need a shout-out for that. After all, he's all up in the gears of the hypemachine. Never mind, you've probably already heard that track if you read, oh I don't know, THE NATIONAL POST.

Anyway, my good friend whatshisface is one big bag of talent and I am damn proud to drop his name. Like it's hot. Because it is. Like ebony feet and replica handbags.

Plugged. What.

Win

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So yesterday I was waiting for the light at a crosswalk, minding my own, when this super huge fatty man (I mean, husky and then some) came flying up the street on his bicycle, flesh flaps a-whappin' in the wind.

And as he rounds the corner he roars: "MOVE! FATASS!"

At me!

And I was all, "I THINK YOU'RE PROJECTING!"

My fellow pedestos thought it was pretty funny, and there we were all a-titter, mocking the fat man on wheels.

Hot lesbian XXX action!!!

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Seriously, who needs YouPorn.com when you have CNN?