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Happy Monday, folks! I’ve got some stellar news for ya’ll…I’ve just officially launched That’s! Woooot! Big thanks to Shaun again for setting this all up, he did a terrific job and he comes highly recommended.

So update your RSS Feeds and whatever…I’ll have an automatic redirect link set up soon, but until then, make the move!

Thanks, friends.  And hello to new followers. You rock.

I stayed home today terrified that I was developing THE SWINE, but I’m apparently just too exhausted to function.  So I took a rest day. What did I do? Nothing. I watched The Tyra Banks Show and wondered what kinda drugs she smokes. Because I want some.


No writing accomplished. Nothing. Did I tell you my Halloween costume yet? Well I’m not gonna.


Stardust – Neil Gaiman


I haven’t read any fantasy genre books in for-freaking-ever, but this one was unique and fresh and I ate it up like cherry pie. I love Gaiman’s adult approach. Harry Potter doesn’t have sex with faeries, but freaking Tristan Thorne does.  ****/*****


Also, I want to thank all you guys for your lovely comments ALL THE TIME. I don’t know if anyone else gets some sorta sick, perverse thrill when they open their email to find comments of adoration, but man, I do. In case you couldn’t tell from my cleverly written innuendos, I’m a little confused about life. Having people who like to read about me makes me feel better.


AND, in case you missed it, here’s my Twilight rant, which I feel totally deserves to resurface since I didn’t have any followers before.

So yesterday after work I went to my salon to get a $50 make-up lesson, which included $50 of free make-up (actually, wouldn’t that mean the lesson was free, not the make-up? Whatever.). I was sweating like a whore on dollar day, so I had to cool down a bit before the lesson.

I told the artist I was mostly interested in eye make-up, seeing as how I have blonde eyelashes and cannot live without mascara because I end up looking like a translucent albino ginger. So she did a really cool smoky effect with  my eyes, using brown eyeliner, gold eyeshadow and beige eyeshadow. I loved it. She also applied this killer lipgloss that just made me want to do the duckface to everyone on the street.

Anyway, so as she’s putting together my goods, she asks me if I want the blush too.

“Is that going to be covered under the $50?” I asked.

“Well, you could just pay the difference,” she said.

I assumed that meant the rest she was gathering was indeed covered under the cost, so I politely declined the blush.

When I got up to the counter to pay, all glowy and pretty and batting my new eyelashes, the clerk charged me $126. I almost fainted. We stared at each other. I handed over my credit card.

Only after I left did I realize OMG I just paid $126 for FUCKING MAKE-UP?! $126??!!! All I got was a brush, two eyeshadows, lipgloss and eyeliner. FUCKING SHIT.

In hindsight, I should have went back to return it. I mean, the lesson was great and the make-up is incredible, but I’m pretty sure I could feed a starving family for a month somewhere with that money. But alas, I’m too cowardly. I accept the make-up with shame.

If I had bought this a few days earlier, I could have at least blogged for Blog Action Day or whatever the shit it’s called, cuz all the products are 87% organic. I guess that’s ONE thing that makes me feel better about it. Except not really because $126??!!!!

Here’s my supermodel pose:

Yeah, not even $126 could reverse this disaster.

Yeah, not even $126 could reverse this disaster.

And here are my turtle slippers:

Absolutely no relevance to this blog entry.

Absolutely no relevance to this blog entry.

And now I’m off to a pubcrawl in the middle of a hurricane, without proper boots or a coat. I have to wait another month to buy these things because $126??!!!!!!!!! I actually could only buy half of my groceries today. I am so fucked.

My good friend Captain is headed off to Afghanistan today, to fulfill his duty as a part of the Canadian military. The first time he said “going off to war” I felt sick to my stomach. It’s funny how so far removed we are from what’s going on overseas…or at least I am. I plead ignorance.

Anyway, I told him I’d pay tribute. And although I’m not very educated on what’s going on over there, I’ve been learning the basics from him. Honestly, I don’t know how he or anyone fucking does it. The kind of lives soldiers lead, and the kind of crap they have to witness…not to mention the discipline. No booze for eight months? Wtf?

You got balls, Captain. I admire your cool-headedness through this whole process, your positive outlook, and your courage. And your bum. And my GOD if I’m ever going to be a military wife I’ll need a stiff drink by my side every night, because I’m pretty sure I’ll be worried about you for the next eight months. I actually have this on my mind more than the fact I have Lasik surgery in an hour. I know you’ll be fine though, we have many more George Street Festivals to attend, shots to take and strippers to disrespect. Totally worth it for a man in uniform. Oh yeah.

Wish my friend good luck, readers! And prayers for safe travels. You’ll be on my mind, I’m glad I got to know you over the past two months. Just wait until I start stalking you with handwritten letters, you’re gonna love it.

Off to get my eyesight reversed, no big deal. See ya’ll tomorrow.

Oh yeah, Thursday night. So my parents went back to the bay and I went back to our little beer-case-laden house in a miserable mood to find a bunch of people drinking. They said, “let’s go to 3-4-5 at The Dock!” and I said, “hell yeah!” Immediate fix.

The Dock was pretty kickass…for once, the line-up didn’t stretch around the entire city, and we got drinks quickly. Let me tell you, friends, three drinks for $5 usually leads to trouble. Chef, his friends and I sat down with two 19 year olds and rocked out to the band. And I mean rocked out…I played air guitar in the middle of the bar. DAMNNN to be 19 years old again, those guys were absolutely shitfaced. I wanted to put them in my purse and take them home with me and feed them a good meal.

Then the table next to us bought a 24 case of BEER. Like, the beer was still in the case. They were fucking rowdy: chanting, cheering, sending men from their troop across the bench to hit on the girls at our table. Well, we weren’t going to take THAT, no sir. So we ordered a twenty-four case of beer for our own table.

But the bar was dying down and Chef wanted to leave, so he stuffed a beer down his pants and I put one in my purse, and we hightailed it out of there. We cracked open our drinks on the hill and just drank on the way home. Because we are fucking geniuses! Then we cooked pizza and cut things up with a knife. Every drunk person should try it, particularly with an expensive knife that has been sharpened 10000 times by your knife-obsessed roommate.

Anyway, after that messy night, I was in no shape to do anything Friday night, and crashed hardcore at 12 a.m. My wallet was still missing at that point and I was pretty freaked out about it, plus I had NOTHING prepared for my hike, and I was feeling pretty blue in general…so I cancelled. I feel bad about it now because I missed out on a good experience, and a good opportunity for writing…but I just didn’t want to deal with it at the time. My leaders were totally cool about it, so whatev.

Of course, after bailing out on the hike, I was stoked to see my friend’s band perform…and then found out the show was cancelled. See? Consequences, all the time.

So I decided I was in need of a haircut, or something exciting, and I made an appointment at the Sound Salon. I had the best fucking head massage I’ve ever had in my life, HOLY JESUS! This skinny little gay guy massaged my head until I passed out. I actually got aroused. Then again, shampoo commercials turn me on.

I told the stylist I wanted something drastic, but I didn’t want to lose any length. Not giving her much to work with considering I couldn’t afford to dye my hair either…so she gave me a side bang. I wanted a straight-across bang, but she wouldn’t give it to me. Sad. Anyway! New hair = good excuse to get slutted up and go out, non?

The stylist did this with a round brush and a hairdryer, TEACH ME.

The stylist did this with a round brush and a hairdryer, TEACH ME.

Side bang

Except all my friends were going to see Snoop Doggy Dog, so I drank at the house alone until about 10:30 when Agent-T and Blondie joined me for some drinks. Everyone came back from the concert completely wasted and drunk on happiness, then dispersed for the after-party at the university bar. I avoid that place like the plague — if I wanted to party with 17 year olds I’d go hang out with my brother.

EXCEPT they fucking made it into the VIP booth with Snoop, and had pictures taken with him, and drank free booze and smoked j’s all night. FUCK MY LIFE. Can you imagine what kind of blog entry THAT would be?

i went to Dusk instead, and ran into an old college friend. I always run into him downtown, we dirty-dance a little, make plans to meet up, and never do. He’s hard to read. He drags me around the bar and takes my phone number but doesn’t try to make out with me. Gentleman, or homosexual? Anyway, we made plans for a lunch date on Thursday. Not sure if I’m totally into him, but we’ll see.

Then Chef’s fucking hot douchebag friend assaulted me on the floor, and tried to make out with me, but my college friend was on the other side of the dance floor and I managed to pry myself away from his iron grasp. He said he’d call too, but he models, and I don’t take models seriously. Sorry.

Standards need to be lowered? Perhaps.

** Follow up tomorrow about mine and TOR’s cultural Sunday afternoon, being tourists in St. John’s, and our delicious home-cooked Newfoundland meal. You must be as sick of drunk stories as I am.

My weekend was so ridiculous that I actually don’t know how to start this entry. But wait a second, I just started. How terribly clever of me. I’m actually sitting here in a state of confusion mixed with bewilderment and awe, because I’d like to know how I’m not in a fucking coma right now.

So I went out Friday night. I don’t fucking know why I bother making plans to stay in, because they never, ever happen. I did, however, master the art of Drinking Without Getting Shittered. I got up at 8:30 in the morning and was feeling ok. Checked out Band-Aid’s housewarming party, Bob stepped on a slug and nearly lost her mind, etc. Also, being downtown while sober is probably the worst idea.

Apparently I have sausage on the brain.

Apparently I have sausage on the brain.

Saturday, I immediately resumed my Let’s-Get-Hammered stance. Ray was back in town, so she and Jagerbomb were counting on me. I did it for them. We had drinks at the house and then headed to Trapper John’s to see Greener perform. That’s when I got Candice-Drunk, a special level of drunkness where I become so vapid and empty-headed that my eyes literally glaze over and I stare through your soul. You can shake me, scream at me, but chances are I will not be able to comprehend your words. I will grin foolishly and perhaps try to kiss you instead.

My classy friend shows up with his booze in a garbage bag.

My classy friend shows up with his booze in a garbage bag.

Anyway, I started off the night by hitting on one of Chef’s friends, whom I’ve hit on several times before but I always run away from him for no reason whatsoever besides the fact I’m a jerk. Then I hit on his other friend, who’s fairly hot, and things were going well until I get distracted by another guy at the bar.


I thought this guy was rather attractive too, but Chef later informed me that he looked like his parents were related. We exchanged numbers anyway, made plans to see a movie. Then I left the bar and five minutes later, he called me. I don’t remember what was said, but when I awoke the next morning, I had two missed calls from him.

Here’s a word of advice: if you’re trying to pick up a commitment-phobic redhead, don’t call her three times after immediately meeting her. Common sense? No?

Stolen shot. Shhh.

Stolen shot. Shhh.

The next morning I woke up to discover myself still absolutely shittered. Actually, I woke up on the futon with Chef’s blazer draped over me, which doesn’t make any sense because I had climbed into my bed upstairs and then moved downstairs…? I drunk sleep walk, by the way. It’s terrifying. I texted Chef to come rub my tummy. We decided “Hey, let’s get drunk!” And so we poured up a vodka drink to drink with our breakfast. He cooked while I cleaned, and we both drank beers. Cleaning up after a party is significantly easier when already intoxicated.

The remainder of the evening was spent watching movies, listening to Benny Benassi, and polishing off all the leftover party beers, a bottle of red wine, and dipping into a 40 ouncer of vodka. We called people and left them drunken voicemails. I think we might have actually watched porn, but then I don’t remember because I blacked out.

This video was taken at 2 p.m.

And since I can’t fucking figure out how to post a video, just click this bloody link.

In other news, J-Nurse and I are patenting an idea for a Jackass Detector. It’ll come in pretty colours and you can wear it on your wrist. When it senses a Jackass (arrogant, smooth-talking, shot-buying, too much cologne, etc.), it’ll deliver a painful electric volt to your vagina. I figure I’ll be zapped to death before I make it downtown.

My bruised ego has yet to inflate again after that discouraging assessment. Yesterday, I went to the gym but realized I forgot a hair elastic, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be one of those middle-aged, bleach blonde, over-tanned women who work out in $200 Lulu Lemon outfits with their hair flowing freely.

And then I checked my phone to discover a text from Beerman:

“Molson mega keg tickets, you in?”

Whereupon my fate was immediately decided, and so I ditched my work-out and had drinks with some buds I haven’t seen in awhile. Did I ever tell you about the time I lived with Beerman while he was a Molson Rep, and our household received 12 dozen cases of free booze a week, plus unlimited tickets and VIP access to concerts and special events?

Those were good times.

Anyway, I met up with the gang at the Sundance. I walked into the event and was immediately assaulted by three nearly-naked women shoving beer and food tickets at me, and a can of Molson Canadian. I was a little overwhelmed.

Later, I popped in and out of the front entrance to give Chef a ticket while he was still in line-up. Then, as I walked through, the same girls (who had seen me leaving just a minute before) smiled brightly, and thrust the token free entry beer at me. I grasped it, stunned, then quickly recovered.

“THANKS!” I said, and ran away before someone realized their mistake.

Internet, I have never done anything so deceitful in my life, I swear. I’m the kind of girl who can’t keep secrets about surprise parties just because it feels wrong to lie. My conscience is the single most important ruling factor in my life, and yet, when it comes to matters of alcohol, even my conscience has questionable motives.


My entourage. I don't know who the guy on the end is.

My entourage. I don't know who the guy on the end is.

The rest of the night went smashingly: watched Wintersleep perform, got drunk for extremely cheap, bar hopped to the Rob Roy, Konfusion, The Dock. At Konfusion, I mistook a friend’s wandering hands for a gesture of interest, and so I kissed him.

When I tried kissing him again, he backed off and said: “I’m kinda seeing someone right now.”

Oh really, well I would never have guessed by the hands that were trying to find their way into my pants just a few seconds before. I literally turned and bolted like a scalded cat.

I met up with Chef and his buddy and then we checked to Trapper John’s on the way home, where one of the boys tried to pick up an epileptic girl with a seizure dog. I told him he was a monster for even considering it. He told me today that she had propositioned him for sex. Apparently the pity thing works REALLY WELL.

Anyway, I had a rough morning starting out at work, but I swear I’m more productive after a night of drinking. It’s like I feel so incredibly guilty for being out late that I have to make up for it the next morning.

Again with the life-devouring conscience.



I have been attending the gym for nearly ten months, religiously, three times a week for an hour or more per session.

A month ago, I decided to up my routine and start going four times a week, mostly to keep up with my ridiculous binge drinking and food gorging habits.

My cardio has improved significantly…I started out at 5.2 m/h and I’m up to 5.7 m/h, although the treadmills at the stupid gym only allow me to run for 25 minutes at a time (in actuality, any longer and I would collapse).

So yesterday I had a fitness assessment with one of the trainers there. I was thinking DAMN, I’m so fit and fine, I’m gonna NAIL THIS SHIT.

We discussed my alcohol and food consumption.

Her: “Twelve drinks per weekend?!!”

More like per NIGHT.

Anyway, we did some standard BMI test, that sorta thing, plus cardio. And then she takes me to the trainers’ room, where we do five minute strength-training drills.

And holy shit, I actually can’t move today.

When it’s all over, she sits down with me in a total serious, melancholy demeanour, a devious rictus spread across her face.

“You did 5 push-ups. The average is 25,” she says.


“You held the plank for one minute. The average is two minutes.”


And so on, and so forth, and you do not need to know the further details of my humiliating fitness shame. TEN MONTHS and I can only do FIVE PUSH-UPS?! I WORK OUT FOR LIKE, 430438043 HOURS A WEEK.

Needless to say, I feel like a piece of dog crap rolled up in a plastic bag and kicked a few times with a steel-toed boot. And so it is my mission to become super fit. I mean, super hot fit. I want to be able to pin my men, not crush them.

O Canada, another year older. I’m a little baffled by the fact that I have travelled seven countries in two years, yet have not seen Canada outside of my own province (other than brief stopovers in Montreal and Toronto). In 6 days, I am embarking on a vacation to Ottawa, for one week of non-stop drinking and other family related activities.


Anyway, after that harrowing camping trip, I was in the mood to get shitfaced. And shitfaced I got.


Now, if you’re unfamiliar with George Street, then it is important to inform you that the street is the highlight of Newfoundland and possibly the world. Newfoundlanders who venture away from the province are likely to spend their time dwelling on how much they miss the pubs, even if they hate it, because only when you’re away from George Street do you realize how much you have taken it for granted. Honestly, you can’t find a better atmosphere anywhere. I feel like I say that too often, and I just might be overflowing with sheer passion and love for St. John’s, but take my word for it, mmm k?


The last I heard, George Street had over 50 pubs/clubs/bars back-to-back. When major holidays like Canada Day take place, the street offers a $10-15 cover charge and free access to ALL THE PUBS. It’s pretty sweet. My friends and I generally spend our entire weekends there, and practically every day as I pass by on my way to work, I spy another pub I have yet to explore. We often muse was that pub there before? But chances are we passed it hundreds of times and were just too hammered to notice.


Hey Rosetta! was playing on the street last night, as well as a few other bands like the Novaks. I hadn’t seen Hey Rosetta! live before, so I was pretty pumped. They’ve got some stellar tunes, Youtube that shit.


I joined Ani, Caper and a handful of other people all destined to get drunk. The concert was already in full swing when we got there, and I kept running into friends all over the place. After the show, we decided to go bar hopping and to check out some obscure bars often overlooked. We ended up at Kelly’s, Fat Cat, The Well, Bridie Molloy’s, the Rob Roy…until eventually we became so loaded that all we could think about was barbecuing some delicious wieners and hamburgers. Mmm, wieners.


Who are these beautiful people??!!

Who are these beautiful people??!!

Unfortunately I missed the part where the lead singer got smashed in the head with a tambourine

Unfortunately I missed the part where the lead singer got smashed in the head with a tambourine

I’m ending this entry on a rushed note because I’m off to get my boobs painted by my roommate. I had intended to stay in all night and be a good employee, but the boys suckered me into being a part of their O CANADA team, and now I’m wearing a white wife-beater with a painted “A” on it. This is gonna leave a stain.

I survived.


Details later.

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