Happy Birthday to You.

What's that? A blog post you say? Why that's crazier than the murderous Mrs. Edward Scissorhands that spooked me during a walk n' text and from whom I (quite coolly) screamed and ran. (She tried to grab my phone. Or my boobs. Or my soul. I'd tell you the story but if I tell it one more time I won't have a musician boyfriend to write about any longer. And I'll be paying full rent.) 

What you are about to read is a birthday wish for a dear old (spoiled) friend. (And a bit of non-blog housekeeping.)*

I'm starting to think that I suffer from a yet-to-be-discovered disease. I am not a doctor, but if I were, I would classify this illness as a strain of verbal diarrhea.  It seems that when around friends or family from outside of Toronto, I just can't stop talking about how flippin' great this city is. (I use 'talking' loosely, as..it's bragging.)

I diagnosed myself over all-you-can-eat sushi last night with a couple of visiting friends. It was sometime after I spent a good ten minutes 'talking' about how many pet owners there are in Toronto. So many in fact that neighbourhoods (which have EVERYTHING) are equipped with their own veterinarian (are they?) and specialty pet stores, not to mention the lush parks and greenspace that make up for the small square footage and no backyard. 

Since when did I start caring about urban pet population and care patterns? Since when did I think other people would? I don't even own a pet! Musician boyfriend hates pets! (No no, you read this wrong. He does have a soul, he just hates pets.)

Yes, there are many conveniences of living in this city I will still tout to anyone who cares to listen.


1. The calories laden in the groceries I buy are conveniently burned off on the walk there (and back).
2. I conveniently don't have to pay attention to the insane price of gas. And, quite conveniently, am never required to be a DD.
3. I can conveniently hop on a plane to NY (and back) for under $300. And will one day, when I can afford  the insane prices of NY hotels.

Said BBQ, assembled inside.
Moments before MB learned that it
doesn't fit through the balcony door.

But there are also many inconveniences. Inconveniences I've been ruminating on throughout tonight's trek (with musician boyfriend and fold-out cart in tow) to Canadian Tire to buy a BBQ and transport it back to our apartment.

It reminded me of the early days of the move, in blustery February, when all things related to home reno became the definition of inconvenience.






1. I cannot conveniently throw some cans of paint in my car and drive the ten minutes back to my house.
2. Price comparison is not necessarily a convenient option.
3. Parents and friends (okay, Dads) are not conveniently nearby with their circular saws and concrete drills and advice on mounting 30 lb shelves.


But a most inconvenient truth came to light this evening. Which actually tops having to help schlep a fold-out cart full of lighter fluid, charcoal and a damned cumbersome BBQ up and down stairs to the subway.


I am not conveniently close to a dear friend's birthday celebrations in Thunder Bay. A friend whom I miss whenever I see a hot skinny blonde (your welcome) walking down the street and I swear, for a second, that it's her.


A friend without which I wouldn't even be writing this, because a) well...frankly she demanded a special birthday post and b) (more importantly) she pushed me to start a non-blog in the first place. My reasons why I should not be writing a blog was in response to her goading me on a phone date. And this supportive and thoughtful skinny blonde is admirably hard to deny.


The birthday lady is pictured to the right, during a candid moment from a girl's trip. She looks sad, and I've always kind of wondered why, since we were all so f*ing excited about being in the Dominican Republic together. But now I know she's thinking, "...Damn I'm going to miss Brianne on my 27th birthday."


Right?


Right?






*Several of my 11 readers mentioned that they were unable to comment on my posts. In summary, their comments included: a menacing threat to make sure I was actually going to work on the blasted book this summer, a promise to stop going to the very same drycleaners that swindled me (SUCCESS!) and the fact that quinoa, like tomatoes, is also a fruit (blew my mind).


Anyway, I think the comments are fixed. Try leaving one.

Bill Nighy Was Here.

This could not be further from a blog post. It is a personal invitation to Bill Nighy to get together with me tonight.

Every morning on my way to work I cut through U of T main campus. Why? Because it's f*ing gorgeous and looks like you're at f*ing Cambridge in 1886 or something. It's magical. And it actually does cut down my commute. 

Filming of "Total Recall" at Knox College 

Anyway, for the past couple of weeks I have been idly following the assemblage of film production equipment in front of Knox College. I didn't read too much into it until I got an e-mail from U of T Operations regarding parking on campus. Parking would be limited, it read, due to the filming of the feature film, Total Recall, from 7am - 11pm, June 26th and June 27th. (Apparently I should never work in operations, as my announcement would have read BIG NAME CELEBS ON CAMPUS SUNDAY AND MONDAY. BAHH!!! And that's it.) A quick google search informed me that Total Recall, based on it's cast, is actually a massive deal. And my personal favourite, Bill Nighy, is one of the castmembers.

Why is Bill Nighy my favourite, over Colin Farrell, Kate Beckinsale, Jessica Biel, and Ethan Hawke?

The answer should be obvious, but in case it isn't, I'll give you three reasons:

1. He contributed greatly to my favourite film of all time - Love Actually.

2. He contributed greatly to a much loved film (by me) - Pirate Radio.
3. He's simply hilarious.

Love Actually has withstood the test of time (8 whole years) as my #1 favourite movie. So much so, in fact, that over time Love Actually became a screening mechanism for love interests and full-fledged boyfriends alike. Come Christmas season, if they could sit through Love Actually and admit that it was a fantastic movie, for all audiences, despite the romantic title and lack of bloodshed, they could stay.

Then musician boyfriend came along.

"I've already seen it." He said, taking a sip of red wine and leaning against the sill of his beloved apartment window. "Great movie."

Foiled! I clenched my own glass harder and narrowed my eyes at him as he stared, meaningfully, as artist-types tend to do, out at the street below.

Maybe he really had seen it. Maybe he'd just been smarter than the others and read that it was my favourite on my facebook profile, and then lied to increase his chances of sleeping with me again. Either way, I respected it. And so ended the screening process. (I guess that's when you know it's meant to be?)

But Bill Nighy wasn't out of the picture quite yet. 

Musician boyfriend has very...discerning tastes. Let's just say he is hard to impress. In all areas. But, with nothing to lose (see reference to looting of the heart that had taken place previously), this was a challenge I was eager to accept. 

Musician boyfriend also hates movies. (No no, you read this wrong. He DOES have a soul, he just hates movies.) Let me rephrase - he hates most movies but for High Fidelity, Hard Core Logo, The Devil and Daniel Johnson and Once. And apparently Love Actually. So, in the early days of our relationship, the 'hanging out' days to be exact, the pressure was on to counter his last, deep date movie pick. 

I chose Pirate Radio. It was set in the 60s. It was about rebellion, freedom and rock and roll. It took place almost entirely on a boat. It starred Bill Nighy.  How could this fail with the red-wine-drinking-motown-loving-dark-curly-haired-muscian-movie-hating type?

Needless to say it was a success. A success at the early-dating stages no less, when the stakes are high and the probability that you can escape any decision without judgement is low. And with this selection, my relationship with Bill Nighy evolved from determining the longevity of boys in my life to, well, increasing my chances of sleeping with musician not-yet-boyfriend again.

So if you're reading this Bill Nighy, and you are in Toronto, nay - merely a twenty-minute walk from my apartment - please, let's go for a drink. Or a walk. Or a coffee. Just comment on this invitation with your number and I'll call you. (Or I'll text you, and you can call me since you're probably here with a UK number and it would be expensive.) I may be a total stranger to you, but to me you're like an old, trusty friend, who is great for my love life in a completely non-physical way. Is that weird?

You'll get your just desserts. (...I hope.)

Yes, the last post was a blog post. But now that I've got that out of my system I can (quite happily) return to not writing a blog.

This is a lament on the state of integrity today.

I have many food allergies, including wheat, dairy, sugar and egg. Because of this, I am often deprived of dessert. Fortunately for me (and occasionally the sanity of those around me,) I live five minutes away from a raw food restaurant called Live Food Bar. Live's menu is wheat, dairy, sugar, and egg free. I can eat their dessert, or anything else on the menu for that matter, and it is amazing. Amazing. So on Thursday I was happy to accept the invitation to have dessert at Live with two small blondes. (By the way, if you're reading this Carlee and Megan, I also referred to you as two small blondes to the Red Tea Box staff when your streetcar was delayed, and they suggested I start a band under that name. They must know how talented I am.)

Right beside this wonderful raw food haven happens to be my drycleaners. Pick up some freshly-hemmed jeans, eat some freshly-baked dessert, head home to a working fridge. That's the kind of simple life for me. But when I stopped at the drycleaners (en route to dessert) for a quick pick-up, they explained to me that the sweater I was getting cleaned had been stained (read - ruined) in the process. They offered to give me back the sweater at no charge after they had sewn up two tiny, worthless holes, for free of course.


I'm not good at these things. I was in a rush. There was a language barrier. I said OK. I paid for the rest of my items. I went to meet two small blondes for dessert at Live.

Half-way through the meal I mentioned what had happened.

"What?!" (Cried the two small blondes).

"You shoudn't have paid!"

"They should have offered to replace the sweater! That happened to me in Ottawa with a skirt & I got reimbursed."

"Oh god. So what do I do?" (Me.)

"Go back and tell them you were in a rush to meet your friends, and ask if they can do anything else."

So I did just that. Today.

I came back empty-handed.

I had politely explained my point of view to the owners and asked for a $75 credit. Reasonable, right? Half the price of the sweater. They said no. That was too much. Their time was too valuable. They'd give me $40. I said that that wasn't good enough and I was taking my business elsewhere (I despise saying things like this. I don't know why.) They could keep the sweater.


I took my things to the cleaners last week, and this week discovered that I'd taken myself instead.

(Musician boyfriend thinks I should have made a bigger stink about it. I like to think that they can see how short I am, and assume I must buy a lot of clothes based on my obvious fashion sense, and then calculate in their minds how many things I will not be paying them to hem in their future.)

Like many "take my business elsewhere" scenarios, this was not about the money. It was the principle. I want to get my drycleaning and tailoring done at a place that values their customers. A place that recognizes the disservice it has done unto others. A place that I can trust. A place I want to support. A place that cares. Etc. Etc Etc. (Quit your gagging, it's the truth.)

So why couldn't they have just apologized and then made a decent effort to make it up to their fellow human?


I got to thinking.

Michael Ignatieff, why did you miss so many days in Parliament?

Stephen Harper, why did you cover up the Alberta oil spill?

CEO's of big business, why are you just such all-around greedy bastards?

Even as I write this, an "energy salesman" knocked on my door and tried to scam me in my own home. Literally, I just got up from my computer mid-lament on integrity to answer the door to a swindler.  (Summit Energy, in case anyone cares.) How did he even get inside the building?

And so, lying glumly on my couch on a muggy, rainy Saturday, sweaterless and alone, I lament the lack of integrity in these people. In lots of people. In people I know and in people I don't. I just don't think it's that difficult to do the right thing. 

And all I wanted was a wheat-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, egg-free nainamo bar.

Super My Ace

Mmmm. The super. Who would've thought it possible that someone so elusive could be such a present, nagging factor in your life?

Landlords are owners. They get your rent. They are making lots of money off of you. They work for you. 

Supers are not owners. Supers want free rent. Supers aren't making lots off money off of you. Supers work for the property owners.

Supers, in a way, are like serfs. But with human rights. And (fortunately) no threat of violence or mistreatment to keep them in line. The Russians emancipated serfs in 1861 for a reason. An economic one (for a second there you thought rulers did things out of the good of their hearts.) A serf-based economy is not a competitive economy. Clearly, in 19th century Russia, nothing was getting done.

Sounds like my building. Sounds like my apartment. 

Here I demonstrate that my problem with supers is not the people themselves, but the system under which they are employed. A system that has been PROVEN INEFFECTIVE FOR CENTURIES.

But I gots big problems with my not-so-super. And I gots to find a way to deal with it. 'Cause stress is bad for your health. And I ain't gonna let no super (or her creepy, criminal, angrily tattoo-ed husband that answers her work phone on occasion) shorten my life span.

Here is a post-broken-fridge example of a super frustrating super situation:

Super: "No problem. I'll be there in twenty minutes with the key to the vacant apartment so you can store your groceries there for the time being."

Me: "Oh great! Much appreciated. I'll be here. Thank you so much."

An hour and a half later.

[Ring Ring.]

Angrily tattoo-ed husband: Hello?

Me: Hi is Agatha* there please?

Angrily tattoo-ed husband: Nope she went out.

[Long pause.]

Can I uh take a message?

I explain the situation

Angrily tattoo-ed husband: Uhhhh...she should be back in twenty ok?

Me: [tight-lipped] Okay! I'll try back then.

%$@$%@$. Text musician boyfriend to explain frustration. Twenty minutes later Musician boyfriend enters apartment, breathless.

Musician boyfriend: Did he show up here?

Me: Who? That guy who answers Agatha's phone sometimes?

Musician boyfriend: Yeah. Her husband. Just uhh..just wanted to be home in case he did. 

Interrupted by sound of jangling keys. Knock on door. Musician boyfriend opens door to be met by criminal angrily-tattooed husband.

Angrily-tattooed husband: I uh, I talked to Agatha and she won't be home for 'nother couple hours so uh. I can take you up to that vacant apartment now with thick cement walls, blinds and a deadbolt.

Awesome.

Musician boyfriend volunteers to go without me.

I could go on, but I need to get to my point.

To begin with dealing with my not-so-super, I'm going to start looking on the bright side more often.

Watch how I do it.

Depressing Fact: Broken fridge needs to be replaced.

Bright side: A mug of tea I was cooling off in the refrigerator (morning rush) spilled in there the other day. No longer my problem.

Depressing Fact: We've been storing what's left of our groceries in a vacant apartment on another floor.

Bright side: It's practice for when my house is so huge that I need to take an elevator to the kitchen.

Depressing Fact: When I called my super at 8:15 am the other morning re: broken fridge, she was still asleep. She has two small school-age children. It was a Monday.

Bright side: As long as people like my super exist, I'll always feel like a successful human being. Even when I forget someone's birthday or give my boss the wrong directions or realize that I've been calling tomatoes vegetables and the blasted things were fruits all along.

Depressing Fact: This latest fridge/super ordeal has inspired musician boyfriend to suggest we look for a new apartment when our lease is up. 

Bright side: This fridge ordeal inspired perhaps the funniest joke I've ever made.

Depressing Fact: I may be educated. I may know about serfs in pre-Communist Russia and be taking a math course in August so whatever, but in any apartment building, the super reigns supreme. Ultimately it's the serf's turf and I'm just the fool who has chosen to live on it.

Bright side: In 15 plus years I can look forward to owning a home.

Yes. This is a blog post.
And I'd appreciate your suggestions on how to deal with not-so-supers.

*Name changed to protect identity.

...living in this sound philosophy

Today is the summer solstice. You may not be aware of this, considering it's felt like summer for weeks and our grown-up lives are no longer dictated by the elementary and secondary school calendar. Or you may be very aware of this. You may be dressed as a druid and getting married at Stonehenge with your new-born baby girl, Sequoia Skylark, strapped to your chest.

Either way, here is my summer to-do list*.

1. Wear sunscreen daily. At least on my best feature. My face.

2. Win the Heart and Stroke Foundation Calendar lottery** 

3. Avoid contact with Lake Ontario.

4. Befriend Torontonian with a cottage. Or house on Toronto Island. (Avoid Lake Ontario.)

5. Pass math camp. 

6. Remember to refer to math camp coolly and casually as 'that math course I have to take, so whatever." 

7. Go as long as possible without air conditioning. Spend money saved on shoes.

8. Start hot yoga. In a real studio with a real instructor. Lying spread-eagle on my apartment floor in mid-July does not count.

9. Find a flattering brown flat (brown 'flat'tering?' heh heh heh) that provides a bit of an arch and can work with casual clothes and dresses and is comfortabe to walk long distances in. (Suggestions?)

10. Even out sheath dress tan.

11. Build up immunity to smells of hot, steamy Chinatown. 

12. Embrace sweat. Like the Finnish. Only clothed. (Avoid Lake Ontario.)

13. Re-learn how to ride a bike. 

      13. A. Learn how to ride a bike in fast-paced and dangerous urban setting. 

      13. B. Use bike as substitute for public transit. 

      13. C  Spend money saved on shoes.

14. Learn 3 no-fail murmurings about wine during Niagara wine tour (in prep for networking with middle-aged white Canadian male politicos and thin-lipped women in suits come fall.)

15. Embark on a successful 4 day hometown visit to Thunder Bay, balancing partying with relaxation with enjoying as much gorgeous nature and fresh air as possible with seeing all of my friends with spending time with musician boyfriend's family with convincing him to let me exercise my joie de vivre and co-perform at least one song with him at hometown show with friend's outdoor wedding reception with non hung over return flight to Toronto.

And oh right. The reason why I quit my job.

16. Revise (re-write) book. 

*To do lists are not to be confused with 'blog posts'. Click for further reading.

**preferably on June 30th, July 31 or August 31

I'm Jim Kirkpatrick...and you're not

For those of you who might suspect this to be a blog post, you’re wrong. I’m just sharing my thoughts on fathers, given that it’s Father’s Day. Most of us are reflecting on fathers today, so to accuse me of writing a blog post would kinda be like saying that you too, are blogging. See what I mean?

It’s no secret that I love dads. Ever since I breathed "Dads do it for me" while watching Jon Bon Jovi perform on American Idol circa 2006 it's not something I've been able to hide from my friends (or even been ashamed of.) To my benefit, big cities are filled with them. Business dads, hippie dads, dads on bikes. Every morning on my way to work I have the pleasure of passing well-dressed Dads dropping their adorably dressed kids off at the Montessori School, just down the street from my building. (It’s better than a Tim Horton’s breakfast sandwich.)

You know, they say that after kids your sex life goes out the window. I personally find that very hard to believe. What isn’t attractive about a responsible, caring man, fully frontal-lobed, and presumably good at fixing things and BBQing up some delicious meals? But I digress.

The title of this reflection piece on fathers is a quote from my favourite dad – my own Dad. It was an opener to a speech he was delivering at an awards dinner. I wasn’t there, but I imagine there was a dramatic pause after Kirkpatrick, as indicated by the ellipses. I should perhaps ask my mother the specifics one day. She was there to hear the line, and she was there to hear the crippling silence afterwards.

My father has been barred from giving a speech in her presence since.

I would have laughed, Dad. I would have laughed.

Jim Kirkpatrick is not a talker. I would wager that he was extremely pained upon being asked to deliver that speech. He probably rubbed his forehead and exhaled at least once before nodding, dutifully.

But he is a listener. So when he does decide to speak, it’s usually worth it to be around. He spends entire nights with friends just soaking up the conversation, and then wraps up the evening with a thought-provoking, and typically humorous, one-liner. (Or maybe it’s just funny that he’s talking for the first time that day. But I prefer to think of him as brilliant.)

I admire this in my Dad. He doesn’t fill rooms with nonsense. No one could say he was annoying, or affected, or full of hot air. Politicians, I say, could learn a thing or two from him. Imagine a world where they could win campaigns not talking, just listening.

It's been over a decade, but the “I’m Jim Kirkpatrick…and you’re not” line has stayed with me. I might try it out myself one day. Maybe it was the delivery? Or maybe it was just the crowd. Either way, if you have a speech coming up, I encourage you to borrow the opener (using your own name, of course). Let me know what happens. If it tanks, you know who you can call to commiserate with. You'll have his full attention.

Father/Daughter Dance, 1991. 
(AKA I've fallen asleep on the dance floor, and he is mid-way through picking me up.)

In Defense of Twenty-Something Males

Let me begin by explaining that this is not a blog post. It is a nation-wide announcement on behalf of the scientific community.

I'm a born-again Torontonian. I lived here for the first 8 months of my life, and then moved back last September. Toronto is a great city. It didn't take long before I welled up with pride looking at the CN tower, disgust looking at cars, and (only on occassion) stopped holding the door open for people (it's not rude, I just can't be there all day, and frankly, sometimes the person is yelling and gargling things at you.) So admittedly, when riots broke out in Van City post Stanley Cup, a few particularly Torontonian responses did cross my mind.

[annoyed] At least The G20 riots started as a peaceful protest and were politically motivated. Not over hockey. God. 

[smug] Guess you aren't as 'chill' with all your mountain biking and mild winters and your condo overlooking the ocean as you once thought?

[angry & self-satisfied] Laid back my f***ing a**!

But the rivalry between the "Toronto Rat-Race" and "Vancouver Paradise" is not what particularly strikes me about the riot. What stands out to me is the crowd. It's hard to pinpoint the culpable from a geographic standpoint; were they from Seattle? Montreal? The moon? Were they even really Canucks fans, or "thugs" posing as such? (They couldn't have been Vancouverites.) But one thing is for certain. It was a 'predominantly male 20-something' crowd. That part is obvious. That part we can all agree on.

Hey Vancouver! I heaarrrrr ya.  Not just for one dark night in my history, but for yeaaaarrrrsssss 20-something males were responsible for all of my problems, too. I get it. It sucks. But I might be able to help. 

After a particularly bad incident involving a male twenty-something (a looting of the heart, if you will) I made an off-handed complaint to my doctor (doctors know everything.) And then she shared something with me of which I believe the world's population should be more aware.

Males typically do not fully develop the frontal lobe of their brain until after the age of 26.

What, pray tell, is the frontal lobe responsible for?

Well, the frontal lobes are involved in several functions of the body including:

• Motor Functions
• Higher Order Functions
• Planning (as in taking the future and its consequences into consideration before acting)
• Reasoning (self-explanatory)
• Judgement (self-explanatory)
• Impulse Control (self-explanatory)
• Memory (1994?)

(About.com)

 I've included an image to bolster my point.

Look at how big it is!! It's HUGE! The most important part of the brain, I think. 

Yes I realize, as in every case, there are exceptions (I even know a few). But overall, the science holds. How can we expect 'male twenty-somethings' to act in a mature, respectable manner, when they only have half a brain?

I hope that this crucial fact regarding the stunted development of the male brain helps, in some way, Vancouver. I hope that like me, you find yourself blurting it out to your friends, a passerby, or at a staff meeting. Shout it from your condo balconies, Vancouverites! Shout it to Japan! 

Soon, Vancouver. Soon, their brains will develop. Soon.

Until then, get yourself a 28 year old.

Songs I Never Get Sick of (Or Haven't Had a Chance to Yet)

Let me preface this by saying it is not a blog post. I'm at work. Therefore, it's part of my job.

I quit my job recently. It's something I recommend to everyone. I've done it twice in the past 10 months, I love it so much. In fact, I love it so much that my mother felt inclined to change her "About me" on Facebook from:

"... married to Jim (high-school sweetheart) for 29+ years. Two grown children, gainfully employed... "

 to:

"... married to Jim (high-school sweetheart) for 29+ years. Two grown children who are both contributing members to society..."

??

It stung.

Anyway, my last day is June 30th. My coping mechanism for an administrative desk job in an open concept workspace is headphones and music. As such, I have an incredibly lush, well organized (meaning I actually own the album artwork) music collection at work. It will all go down the tubes on June 30th. 

Yeah. It stings.

Now I'm in music limbo. I couldn't be bothered to download more music and allow it to suffer the same fate. By the same token, I've listened the shit out of the music that I already have. So,  this has motivated me to consider songs that I never get sick of. What do I already have that I still want to listen to?

Songs I Never Get Sick of (Or Haven't Had a Chance to Yet)

1. 40 Day Dream - Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

2. Mescaline - Robert Francis

3. Jump - The Pointer Sisters

4. Call Your Girlfriend - Robyn (OK this is a lie. It's a new single, so I just started listening to it off the album I've had forever. But I don't listen to the radio, so, assuming I don't make too many trips to Urban Outfitters, I don't anticipate myself getting sick of this anytime soon. And I'll throw my full support behind any Swede who makes a comeback look so good. And who writes from the perspective of the other woman. Risky business, that.)

5. To the Dogs or Whoever - Josh Ritter

6. Last Kiss - J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers (childhood fave)

7. To Be Young - Ryan Adams

8. Summer Light - The Cave Singers

9. I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch) - Four Tops

10.Stacks - Bon Iver

11.Sail of the Silver Morning - Cotton Jones

12. VCR - The xx

13. Into the Mystic - Colin James

14. When The Stars Go Blue - Ryan Adams

15. You are the Best Thing - Ray Lamontagne

Reasons why I should not be writing a blog

1.   I don’t think I’m funny anymore. I think I was funny, at one point. But I peaked. And now here I lie in a dry valley of practicality and. Well. It’s a draught. I’m parched.

2.   I’m in a great relationship. Which means I’m boring by default. How I fell into this relationship….well…that’s a story. But that was almost a year ago and now we co-habitate and argue about his underwear on the bathroom floor. And why he doesn’t write songs about me (he is a musician.)

3.   I start policy school in September. Ahem. I start MATH CAMP in August (no big deal) and then policy school in September. No elaboration necessary.

4.   Hipsters won’t like me. I’m happy.

5.   That’s just it. I’m happy. I’m a boring, happy, pre-grad student. And I wish everyone the same happiness and the same love and the same joy and enchantment with life on earth, as we know it, today. (When I’m not stewing over everything that is wrong with the world. Namely capitalism and patriarchy). See, you’re already turned off.

6.   I’m working on a book.

      6A. It’s pretentious to write about the fact that you’re working on a book. No one wants to hear about your book, unless your Stephen King or J.K. Rowling or whoever wrote Twilight. Or Tolstoy reincarnate.

      6B. This non blog could go two ways. I could be terrible at it, thus killing all desire and drive to write for the masses. Or I could (not likely) be good at it, and use it as an excuse to never finish writing this damned book. Either way the book is doomed.




I should not be writing a blog.