Quick, kids, before you miss it!

My street has a knife-sharpening truck. It comes and it dingles and dangles like it's bringing me malt cups and choco tacos, but no, just ceramic and steel. I've never used it myself ("waking hours," "nudity/intoxication time"; tomatee, tomato) but I do love whenever it goes by because I get to picture people gathering all their kitchen knives in their arms and racing downstairs to catch that silly truck.

Of Red-Bearded Strays and Other Strange Beasts

Here's a picture of my "long-eared cats" done by my friend Nick using MS Paint. You know Nick, he's the one who ate the pig's face. He's been around my apartment a lot lately, ever since my friend Jesse discovered him curled up and sleeping on the sidewalk in front of my door at 4am, with no recollection of how he got there. Or so he claims. I think he just wanted ice cream and weed, or something.

So I says to him, Nick, I says, listen. You want to come over you don't have to do that whole "blackout" thing. Just call. But I guess he's shy.

Since then he has been discovered napping on various floor surfaces around my apartment: in my bedroom, the hallway, and in the kitchen next to the trashcan. I think I will buy him a basket.

Things Bunnies Like

Whoppers. But only the chocolate coating, so they will thoughtfully leave you all the little white malted cores.

Also, pistachios. But only because they make a fun sound when they are first piled onto a wood floor and then slid into over and over. Scatter-scatter-scatter. All fucking morning.

In which this summer's adventures dip deep into the surreal

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From an MSN chat with Von Hellzen:

Strike one, Nancy...Strike one: so if you maybe noticed a Chevy Cavalier screaming around Longueuil with three topless male strippers hanging out the windows

Strike one, Nancy...Strike one: blasting, um, I think it was Korn...

Strike one, Nancy...Strike one: that was me.

____________________________________________

The thing with these guys is that they don't put their shirts on. Ever. Not in the car, not in restaurants, not in the grocery store.

a-well-a well-a well-a huh

Yesterday I opened a new checking account. By the time I got home the customer service representative had already added me on Facebook.

Really?

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.