Since my grandmother lost her fifteen yearlong battle with breast cancer, my grandfather has acquired the custom of picking up and kissing her photograph along with inviting himself over to her friends’ houses and drunkenly trying to seduce them until they send him swerving homebound along the moon-soaked streets. “Maybe you should back off, Dad”. “But you can’t understand,” he laments to my mother, his sorrow ricocheting off of a space satellite. As I listen to their conversation from my position on the couch where I first attempt and then pretend to continue reading Everything Is Illuminated, my grandfather’s toothless voice overflowing the space between the receiver and my mother’s ear, I wonder which would be worse: losing your lover, being left by your lover or never having a lover at all.
Merely a few blocks west of my grandfather, who is by now most likely gorging himself on the chocolate that he still keeps hidden from my grandmother under his pillow even though she is dead and despite the fact that she knew it was hidden there all the while and still did not arrest it from his reach because she believed that it would bring him sweet dreams when she was no longer sleeping next to him and kicking him through the night, a friend of mine is letting her ex-boyfriend fuck her, having somehow convinced herself that she is actually using him. While he urges her to get on top, an old friend of mine who lives just down the road passes a rolled up five -dollar bill to his girlfriend.
And a few thousand miles away, speeding along a causeway across the border, I am trying to make sense of all the romantic notions that exist in the world without holding any ground as I watch raindrops travel quickly across the window like sperm.
There are things I know and things I don’t, things I suspect and things I ignore. Some things I dream of and some things I hope will never happen to me – sometimes these are the same things. In the brief time that I have been on this Earth, I have learnt never to assume. As my grade seven history teacher once told me, assuming makes an ass out of “u” and “me”. Two weeks later he was found dead in his apartment, having suffered a heart attack three days prior. We know this because of the date that was printed neatly in the top right hand corner of the newspaper that lay gently collapsed across his stomach. Never assume. But, I have also learnt that if you do assume and that assumption is later proven false, you should apologize. Apologies are worth more than people allow them to be. Sometimes, saying you’re sorry is all you can do. Almost always, it is the first step to becoming a better version of yourself. But, like all things, there are rules which repentance must adhere to. The most important rule is that you should only apologize if you mean it – not by accident or because you think you should or as a means to your end. It is because apologies are made for reasons such as these that they are so commonly believed to be worth jack shit. Apologies should be made only if you are truly sorry for something or everything. Apologies are tiny prayers to the powers that be, which prove that one believes in the possibility of a better self, that one wants to inhibit this better self and, furthermore, that one deserves to do so. This I know.


"You're an experiment," she told him.

"What are you testing?"

"The truth. I want to tell you everything. I want to know if you'll still love me anyway."


PART A: It's not your fault.
PART B: It's mine.


shit man, the power of words.

by Jenny Holzer


1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1/4 cup sliced almonds

1/2 pound snow peas, trimmed

2 teaspoons minced shallot

1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

Melt butter in medium skillet over medium heat. Add almonds and cook until golden and fragrant and butter begins to brown, stirring frequently, about 11/2 minutes. Add snow peas and shallot; sauté until snow peas are crisp-tender, 1 1/2 to 2 minutes. Remove skillet from heat; add lemon juice. Season to taste with salt and serve.

Refrigerated over night, this is the best spring afternoon snack.
Walking home from my philosophy of sex and love exam, the crossing guard stationed outside of our house asked if I was excited for Easter. "Of course," I told her. "But I'm not sure who's going to hide the easter eggs."

"Sometimes you just have to spoil yourself," she said.


Survey says?

Loan Shark - Voxtrot
I came to university to learn but I feel like all I've learnt is not to accept anything as true.


How good it must feel when the balloon is finally allowed to exhale.
Today during closing meditation, my yoga instructor began to read Jack Kerouac to us:

"the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars"


Nothing says you're in your twenties like ripped tights.


What's better than rainy days and Talking Heads?
Life is a wind tunnel.
There is something nostalgic about getting up really early when it is still dark out and no one is on the streets. It's the same feeling I get when I get out of a chlorine pool and I almost want to cry. There must be something about this darkness and those chemicals that is intrinsically linked to my childhood, to when my mother used to hold me in her arms and I knew everything would be okay.
"The family pictures picture the family, often as happy (the bodies that gather smile, as if the smile were the point of the gathering). At the same time, the pictures put aside what does not follow this line, those feelings that do not cohere as a smile."
-- Sarah Ahmed, "Becoming Straight"


I would take back the strict
high school regime of
to friday
in a heartbeat if it meant that
would mean something
-- anything --

Fuck this getting drunk every night of the week shit.

Gimme Gimme Gimme - Dirty Projectors

Happy Saturday morning!

Immaturity in a squeeze tube.


I don’t know how
Shakespeare would define evil
Or really care
About anything besides
The tired voice of my mother
Going on and on about American Idol
On the other end of this receiver
Or the cancer
Seeping into my brain
Because my mother is going on and on
About American Idol on the other end of this receiver.

Technology is out to get us.
Of this I am sure.

And I have to wonder
Who actually calls in their votes?