"Life Tip #53"

Don't get a girlfriend who will crash your car.

If you do get a girlfriend who will crash your car, don't give her the keys.

If you get a girlfriend who will crash your car and give her the keys and see the crash while riding in a passing bus, don't try to commandeer the bus.

If you get a girlfriend who will crash your car and give her the keys and see the crash while riding in a passing bus and try to commandeer the bus, don't crash the bus.

< /quote Funny Class Notes>
Artwork by Sitji Chou. Ha.

Studying and Cooking

If I was a cooking vessel, I'd be a porcelain pot. Not just any porcelain pot, a clay pot with the approximate thickness of Hobbes' Leviathan. If you are unsure of just how thick the Leviathan is, well, it's very thick. It's insane how much time is required for me to spend before I become productive. The porcelain pot is notorious for taking an extremely lengthy amount of time for it to become thoroughly hot, and sustain enough heat to produce edible food. Me, I take hours, or even days before I finally gather enough momentum to complete my assignments.

Three days is more than a reasonable amount of time to compose a 1500 word essay. In fact, with two days, you could research your essay, re-read your text, write an outline, book mark quotations, compose, and proofread your essay and still have enough time to review your french notes, watch The Bicycle Thieves, fight undead orcs in the dungeon, and maybe even catch Yojimbo down at the Pacific Cinématheque. But of course, like the stupidly dense pot that I am, I manage to spend the first two and three quarters of my three days not writing my essay. Where did those two and 3/4 days go? Well, I spent a generous amount of that time on "attempting to work". If I was still taking math classes I could write an equation for my productivity...
But to take a crack at it, it'd probably look something like this:

productivity = (attempted study time)/20

So if I had two hours to work on an assignment, I'd probably be looking at less than twenty minutes of actual work done. How this pertains to the equation, I don't know. But I do know that most of that time would've been spent on repetitively re-reading paragraphs, playing minesweeper obsessively, reading Slashdot and drawing hybrid animals in the margins of my pages.

So on the particular weekend of my epic essay writing endeavors, having spent grueling hours(two days) of pre-working, and attempting to work, the tiny gear lodged in the corner of my brain which controls my academic motivation finally begins to turn three hours before midnight, signaling the last day before my due date. And boy did the gear turn, although it's rusty from infrequent use, my motivation finally rose to a healthy level and my essay began to take shape.

I proceeded to spend the next ten consecutive hours or so writing and phrasing while taking frequent short breaks to minesweep, and to pace my room whining and moaning about how terrible a writer I am. Now I could have finished after about seven hours, but by then I had already passed my "point-of-no-return" (if you're curious, it's about 5am in the morning) where I ultimately decide to forgo sleep for the night because I'll almost certainly oversleep my remaining two hours before the morning. Having decided to abandon the sweet thought of sleep, I was left with an additional three hours before 7:30am to fine-tune my essay, and for the first time since being in Arts One; proof read. It was torture, the night. Not to mention I spent all of the next day suffering the repercussions of skipping sleep.

Although given an approrpiate amount of time to warm up(a large amount of the heat coming from sheer pressure), I can be pressed to produce essays of a delectable quality. But despite that, and despite my efficacy with working under pressure, being a clay pot ultimately sucks.

100 Movies, 100 Quotes, 100 Numbers

How many movies can you recognize? Even if you're not much of a cinephile, I'd guarantee you'd recognize at least two.

A Movie A Day

I was having a conversation with a friend once, and he said, "hey, since you've joined the Film Society, you much be watching a lot of movies all the time eh?" It sounds like a more than reasonable assumption, and really, it is. But sadly enough, at the time that I was posed with that question almost two months ago, I couldn't say yes.

I've been trying to keep a very detailed list of every movie title that I have ever seen in my life on my computer for a couple of years now (Fun Fact# 134), most of it is alphabetized, but the bottom portion of the list is entirely chronological. When I reviewed all of the accumulated movies since the end of the summer, the number is anything but pleasing. I really haven't watched many movies throughout the three months since becoming a club member at the dawn of the school year. This realization saddened me greatly, and I decided to take action. I needed to watch more movies, and I needed to set a plan. This couldn't be one of those vague and ambiguous goals that people often give themselves such as "be more organized", or "exercise more" only to forget about them once their passion and determination fizzles out, I had to give myself a measurable resolution.

So it was about the time of my previous post, the day before my exam, whilst in the midst of procrastination, I decided to watch a movie, Trainspotting it was. I enjoyed it quite a bit, and I thought gee, spending the time to watch a movie didn't take up as much of my study time as I thought it would, I wouldn't have to study anymore after this exam, I could easily watch a movie everyday if I wanted to, and what better time to give yourself a hefty, ambitious film related project than during the chilly and festive, and -most importantly- school-less month of December? So it was decided, an inverted New Year's Resolution. I was to watch a movie a day, until the start of the new semester (January 7th).

I'll have to admit, there were times when I feared that I would not be able to accomplish my twenty-two movies in twenty two days endeavor. But I was dilligent, and prevailed. If I had missed a movie somehow, I would make up for the deficit by viewing two movies the next day, and I kept it up for three full weeks. It was a very lifting experience for me, I was able to finally cross off some longtime tenants on my Wanted: movie list.

For those who are interested: (not many of you, I'd imagine)
As well as for personal accomplishment/boasting purposes, I have attached the list of the movies below:



If you're thinking the same thing that I am (man that was a shitty post, and Sandie is a terrible writer), I apologize in advance. Once my brain defrosts from the lull of the holidays I will post more silly anecdotes from Sandie's life.

Super Powers

I've always had abysmal study and work habits ever since I can remember being in school. It's been several years since my first escapade into grade school, and not much has changed. Instead of becoming increasingly more fluent when studying over the years, I've become more and more proficient at procrastination. In fact, I've become so skillful that I can procrastinate without doing anything, I can procrastinate while staring at my textbook. During the most inopportune hours of the day, my mind will simply float away, far from the lonely textbook that lies agape dutifully in front of me. Far far away it will float, into the outer reaches of the universe, where my mind will entertain itself with a myriad of ideas, most of which will have about as much relevance to my current subject of study as religion is to civil law.

So today, I was on one of my ordinary forays into the sea of overstudying-induced hallucination when an extraordinary idea penetrated the opulence of ninja warriors and cats clouding my mind and came into focus. Brace yourselves, everyone, for I present to you, the power of the Freudian Analysis. Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like if there was someone out there who could harness the legendary powers of Sigmund Freud? Superheroes and manga heroes are always gifted with the powers inspired by ancient gods and deities, (i.e. Sailor Moon, Naruto, Ororo/Storm, etc.) It's about time we had a proprietor of power whom we can all relate to. There will be no more awe-inspiring elemental manipulation, no more potentially destructive powers such as super strength, speed, or animorphosis. The destructive potential of the Freudian Analysis will lie purely in the psyche.

The lucky inheritor of this cutting edge technique will be endowed with the super ability to analyze any situation and circumstance with a psychoanalytic touch. In public places such as the art gallery, it will be child's play for our hero to psychoanalyze all pieces of artwork within mere seconds. A spin can be placed on anything and everything to resemble all the different faces of dormant sexual desires. In practice, all of Georgia O'Keefe's flowers become barren and lonely vaginas decorated with garish, artificial colours, and Andy Warhol's Marilyn Monroe becomes a manifestation of his insecurity and fear of commitment due to his desires to bed a multitude of women, whom despite their differing complexion and skins, are all the same underneath. Our hero will have an infinite number of subjects for which to hone his talents, being the urban city-dweller that he is. But he must remember to never use his gift on himself or his loved ones, lest he cripples their psyche for all of eternity.

Once our gallant hero has mastered his powers of the Freudian Analysis, he will be ready to fight evil. Now our super psychoanalyst may suffer a deficit in STR and AGI, but his unrivaled INT and LUK will offset and compensate for his shortcomings. Skillfully and stealthily he will use his peerless intelligence to infiltrate corporate office buildings. Once he has entered enemy territories he will hunt down all of the company heads and CEO's: the proprietors behind evil advertisements, and false logical slogans such as "i'm lovin' it", and "embrace diversity". Then he will unleash his deadly techniques of the Freudian Analysis and mentally scar his enemies through immense psychological torture by convincing them that they have lived their lives wholly in effort to satisfy some (previously)unknown and inane sexual desires, and that these efforts have been in vain because they had become corrupted by power and can no longer accomplish their sexual dreams since the onset of old age, obesity, hair loss, and arthritis two dozen years ago. His enemies will become thoroughly dispirited and fall into utter depravity until they commit suicide.

Over and over again, I played the triumphant episodes of my psychoanalytic hero in my mind, as the corners of my mouth curved into a ridiculous grin and drool glossed over the edge of my lips. I remained in that absurd state for approximately fifteen minutes before my mind ascended from the outer galaxies and returned to Function Calls and Event Handlers. I'm going to need all the LUK I can get for my exam tomorrow.

Secrets of the Sauce Industry Revealed!

I was surfing around deviantart today, hoping to kindle some kind of creative spirit for my visual arts assignment, when I came across this scandalous conspiracy, so shocking and disturbing i had to share it with all my readers (yes, all three of you);


Here is what the artist had to say on this fishy topic:

Ok ok ok ok ok... this is a scientific illustration based on the theory that all sauce comes from various breeds of sauce weasel. They just lay packets of sauce like chickens lay eggs. Each breed produces its own unique sauce and each has its characteristics. For instance the soy sauce weasel maintains a fully vegetarian diet. The elusive secret sauce weasel is in actuality a cross breed of a ketchup weasel and a salad dressing ferret. The American BBQ weasel is most active during summer and the Worcestershire weasel has a fondness for fish in its diet. The Mexican hot sauce breed is born with one of three temperaments: spicy, medium, and mild. So far the scientific community has scoffed at my theory... the fools. I suspect a cover-up that the sauce industry does not want exposed. -Gennady

I'd like to draw your attention to another aspect of this illustration, notice how there are exactly thirteen breeds of sauce weasels in this scientific sketch? That number corresponds with the amount of letters in the name "Sauce Industry". Convenient isn't it? And what kind of relationship does the scientific community share with the sauce industry?
I will refrain from further comments, and let you be the judge to this conspiracy.

This scientific sketch is done by the talented Gennady Babichenko, whose domain can be found on deviantart.

My Deepest Apologies, Mr. Rousseau

Dear Mr. Jean-Jacques Rousseau,

This is a bit embarrassing, but I must admit, I am having a lot of trouble reading your acclaimed Discourse on Inequality this evening, to my dismay. Now this may be because I've yet to have a full night's sleep thus far this weekend but instead had short sporadic naps throughout the day, or maybe it's the thick opaque fog that is currently clouding my mind from watching the Naruto movie earlier. Viewing this movie has resulted in the unfortunate side-effect of a heavy loss of brain cells, which is detrimental to my literary processing abilities. I apologize with the utmost sincerity, and I vow never to watch said movies again. For now, I will do what Sandie hasn't done for over seven years, and head to bed, before 10:00pm. I will rise two hours prior to my usual set time and resume my reading efforts then. Thank you for your understanding.

Sandie

Update! and an Instruction Manual

It seems that I have neglected to update my blog in awhile, and the longer I wait, the more I feel compelled to write something fantastic for my update; so I've decided, to write an in depth guide on how to be a pretentious visual arts major. Despite the sophistication implied by the title, it is a mere matter of dedication to achieve such a status.

Looking the Part
The most primary step in this lofty endeavor, is to assume the appropriate "look" of a pretentious art student. Here is a simple and foolproof rule-of-thumb for anyone who wishes to approximate the image of an artistic intellect: make yourself ugly. Because all artistic people know that the most valuable aspect of an individual is their personality and character, and not what's on the outside.
The most beautiful people around are often those with the lowest IQ, so it logically follows that ugly people must be intelligent. With this logic in mind, it makes perfect sense that the uglier and flashier your attire is, the greater your intellect and artistic abilities are.
Pick out items of clothing in cuts and colours that are least suited to your body type. If you want to be real edgy, dress as if you are from a different time period. Pick an era, and dress like how the hipsters did back then. You will show how artistic and intelligent you are by not succumbing to current social trends and following old ones instead.
Heed not to those who criticize your appearance, the harsher the criticism, the more confident you should feel about your intellect.


Feigning Intelligence
Now that you look smart and artsy on the outside, you must learn to talk like a pretentious artist. The first step to mastering the art of sounding like a thoughtful and ostentations snob is to become well versed in common social issues. Here are a couple of stellar examples that will never bore during a class discussion (nor will they ever get old):

• self-similarity in current social trends and how its bad


• people's reliance on technology in modern society and how its bad


• consumerism and money, and how they're bad


• celebrities, pop stars/rap stars and how they're bad


• makeup, and media defined beauty, and how they're bad

Note: Any permutations of the above list are acceptable.

Any understanding or insight as to why these hot topics are bad is redundant. All you need to know is that they are all bad, and that they affect you, the avant-garde artist negatively. In what ways and how? Again, those are merely trivial questions that are of no real concern. But if you are ever cornered with such irrelevant inquiries, simply talk about how each of these social issues squander individuality and personal freedom of expression.

Making Art
After you have memorized these social issues, and can recite them by rote memory, you are ready to make art. Make sure your art work addresses one of the afore mentioned topics. Your art must express the evils of < !--insert topic-- > and how it spoils individuality. This task is as easy as it sounds. You can express evil either by showing how sad and anguished people are when they are deprived of their individuality by painting/drawing/cutting out sad faces, or by using ominous symbols such as the colour black, red, black combined with red, or receipt paper to represent the lack of individuality. All are equally original.

If your art work does not look particularly appealing or pleasing, fret not. It is very easy to cover up your lack of artistic skills with concepts; that way, any and all flaws can be explained and excused.
Don't know the first thing about composition? No problem. An abysmally composed art piece with a lack of (or too many) focal points can easily be justified when it is an expression of how technology has messed with humanity and natural human behaviour. With such a concept, your art is no longer just an abysmally composed piece, it is an abysmally composed piece where the inane composition represents how modern technology confuses and distorts our ability to design aesthetically sound compositions.

Your human figure looks like a deformed hairless hyena with glasses? Simple. You were trying to portray how anguished humans are when deprived of their individuality that they become inhuman and turn into hyenas who wear glasses due to their blindness and detachment from reality.
When every imperfection in your art and your lack of skill is justified, there is no need to practice or improve your skills because you have mastered the skill of bullshitting.

Critiquing
Now that you are learned in creating innovative artwork that are sure to cause an impact on its viewers, you must learn to appreciate and critique the artwork of your peers. Rule of thumb in this instance would be to always have something to say, even when you have nothing to say. The last thing you want to do in an open critique session is to sound like an moronic asshole, or even worse, to be caught with nothing to say. Always comment, no matter how insubstantial, crass, or trite the comment is.
It's easy to find things to comment on, you can start by pointing out the obvious:
"I noticed that you used acrylic paint in this picture."

Or you can also point out an aspect of the artwork that you like:
"I like that you used acrylic paint in this picture."
"I like how you rendered the background/flowers/girl's face/airplanes in the picture."

To take commenting to the next level, some depth of discussion must be brought fourth. Introduce an idea relating to the previously mentioned stellar-social issues that the artist probably didn't intend, and force it onto the artwork you are viewing through an insignificant and obscure detail.
"I noticed that in the upper corner there, those brush strokes you used in the background switched back and fourth, it sort of represent how confused people are with their identities in today's society."
"I like how you used that little splatter of white paint there in a field of brown that was probably unintentional to represent how isolated individuals are in today's society where everyone is the same."

Once you have mastered all the essential skills to becoming a pretentious VISA major, you are well on your way to cruise in style through the visual arts program at your academic based university because you were not talented enough to be enrolled in any of the other programs, or to get into a real art school.

Pretentious idiots like that make me want to quit VISA programs for life.

Disclaimer: I seem to have lost my source for that Spam image, but I just want to make it clear that I didn't take that image.

Top Reasons Why Sandie Should Carry Cash with Her

For more than a year now, I have never carried more than fifty cents with me in my wallet, no matter where I went. If I ever had to spend more than fifty cents, I would simply whip out my handy debit card, which I never use unless I am spending more than ten dollars at once. It was a strategy designed to deter myself from making impulsive purchases. Has it been effective in saving money? It's hard to say, though it's probably saved me a small fortune from exuberant mocha and tea consumption alone. But during this past week, there have been a number of instances which compel me to rethink my spending strategy, and that perhaps it is best that I carry a small amount of cash on me from now on.

It was not two days ago while I was in line for the 99 at 8:00am in the morning, the lineup threaded way back till past the A&W like always. I could hear awesome music coming from near the bus stop. I crane my neck from behind the disgruntled-looking fat woman in front of me, trying to catch a glimpse of the duet, but couldn't. While doing so I noticed quite a few people who were plugged into their iPods, and immediately I felt the urge to shake my fist at them for tuning out when such a brilliant live performance was taking place. When I did get a chance to look at the dual, I was utterly astounded; there was a man singing lead vocals whilst playing on a keyboard, and his partner was singing as well whilst playing the fiddle. To top it off, at certain intervals on the song, the woman would tap dance on a plank of wood to make sounds that complimented the progression of the music, the sounds they made together was simply thrilling. To make a long story short, I was itching to purchase their CD like I had ants in my pants, but sadly I held no ten dollar bill in my pockets. The itching was so propelling that I almost ran out of my place at the very front of the bus lineup to ask them for their names, but alas, I would've missed the bus and arrived late for my lecture. I don't know if I'll ever get a chance to meet these two again.

Due to a couple of instances not unlike this one, I've decided to compose a list of reasons why I should carry a small amount of cash on me at all times:

• When I encounter amazing buskers out on the street at Granville island or the Drive, I can buy their CD's on the spot.


• I can pay for a stupid printing card from the UBC library so I don't have to hand in essays late due to printer failure.
  
• When I find cute trinkets, scarves, or cozy gloves at the SUB market, I can purchase without worrying about not finding the item again the next time I come.


• I can feed myself on Fridays during my five hour break when my food runs out or if I simply neglected to pack any.


• I can properly and fully show street buskers or entertainers my appreciation instead of just tossing them my fifty cents.


• I can get out of restaurants sooner by paying cash instead of debit (usually).
  
• I'll have a better record of my spendings and allowance as opposed to paying with debit, where money seems to mysteriously disappear everytime I check my account balance.

With all of that in mind, it's actually more convenient for me to continue the way I am, since I get paid by direct deposit. Maybe I will withdraw a monthly allowance for myself or something. Or not.

p.s. image by the lovely and talented kozyndan! Google them if you're interested. They also have a Flickr gallery.

At Work

I've been experiencing some major challenges at work for the past week or so, particularly with my manager. I can no longer look her in the eye the same way I use to.

I suppose, to elucidate this problem, I should first explain the event which served as a catalyst to this troublesome issue.
It was about one week ago today, I was lying soundlessly asleep on my living room couch. Next to me outside the window you could hear the steady pattering of rain in perfect rhythm, soothing to the ear. I was dreaming, a terrible dream unfurling before me. It was Halloween at the portrait studio, and my manager was throwing our annual Halloween party for all the children. It was great fun, there were goblins, witches, kitty cats and Elvis', all enjoying various Halloween treats and games. I was filling a decorative bowl with Skittles, when my clumsy hands failed me and emptied half the container of candy onto the carpet. I blanched, and feverishly attempted to collect the rainbow of candy before they attract halloween bandit raccoons. It was then, that the studio suddenly became dark, the temperature seemed to have dropped considerably. I turn my head slowly to find a pair of glowing eyes glaring at me from a large shadowed silhouette that blocked out the lights. It was my manager, except she was a sunflower. Her tall stalky sunflower physique loomed dangerously over me, as she lifted a leafy hand and pointed accusingly at me. She began to gobble. One did not need to speak turkey to detect the anger in her threatening tongue.

Unfortunately, the contents of the remainder of this dream have escaped me upon my awakening, but if I try really hard, I can glimpse traces of a chase scene across an empty Sears, some yelling and a hatchet. Whether the hatchet belonged to me or my sunflower boss, I cannot tell.

As a direct result of this dream, I have not been able to keep my composure whenever I face my boss. As she speaks to me, the contents of her her speech degrades into a low droning gobble, and golden petals sprout from behind her ears. It takes everything I have just to hastily avert my gaze before I burst into a fit of outrageous giggling. It's become a serious problem.


P.S. This post features lovely art by an artist I recently discovered, Luke Chueh. I encourage all to check out his deviantart page.

I saw the Valley Covered in Fog

I dreamt this morning, that I was screaming and throwing turtle shells at innocent pedestrians. I didn't know why, but I was extraordinarily angry, so furious at their offending presence in fact, that I appeared to be yelling in German.

I was yelling so passionately that I woke myself with a start, to find myself thirty minutes behind schedule. Perhaps it was an after effect from all the foreign cussing, but I don't react like most who are have just found themselves waking half an hour later than intended; no, the lateness doesn't stop me from taking my sweet time getting out of bed; I do so as lazily as humanly possible (for someone who's behind schedule at least), and linger on every muscle movement as if my bones were a a couple of hundred years old.

I drag myself out of bed before I resume regular movement speed once I began my morning routine. I walk by the the kitchen window and do a double take as I bore witness to one of the most amazing sights I have seen in years. The entire valley was covered in a cloudy blanket of fog that stretched as far as the eye could see, I felt like I was alone at the top of a remote mountain, gazing at a city drowning in a sea of smoke. I only peeled my eyes away long enough to run and grab my camera and dash out onto the porch in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. It was like jumping into a freezing swimming pool in mid October. I shivered like I was having an epileptic seizure, but I did get some excellent pictures.

I Think I'm In Love

I've fallen in love with Wayne Thiebaud's paintings. Whenever I see one of his garish paintings of confectionery delights I begin to hyperventilate (mentally) and I feel as if everything is good and happy in the world. I get so excited and giddy I fear that I may start foaming at the mouth. I'm falling in love all over again. That's how amazing he is.

Thiebaud seems to paint predominately two types of subjects; cakes and confectioneries, or city-streetscape. I adore the cakes and the pies, but I have the most love for his city-streetscapes. It's simply stunning.




Oh look at the colour! The vibrancy! The texture! The contrast! And the flagrant breaking of composition rules. <3 These images here do not do justice to the real paintings in life, but it gives you an idea. I've decided that the next book I purchase -after Genesis- shall be a Wayne Thiebauld book.







P.S. - click images for full view or die.

What Has Internet Sandie Been Busying Herself With For the Last Week Or So?

This.

Back to School

Less than a week remains before school starts, and I've only just gotten into my lazy summer spirit a week ago. All I want is just to be able to go to sleep whenever I felt like it, and battle zombies and skeletons to hone my battle monk skills. But now I have to start thinking about textbooks, tuition, timetables, and orientation day.

Well, the good news is that -after very minimal consideration- I've decided to make an addition to my skimpy timetable earlier tonight. I will now be attending German lectures on Mondays Tuesdays and Thursdays. However frank it may be, that German is merely a substitute for the French class I couldn't register in time for, I am gradually beginning to feel a bit of excitement about the course. I mean, I've always loved German movies, and German sausages. How can I not love the German language?

With this new addition, I will be spending my first term studying English, Visual Arts, Computer Sciences, and of course German. Hoorah!

On an unrelated note, I've discovered that if I get into bed at just the right time of night, I am treated to a splendid view of the moon from my bedroom window. All I have to do is look up and out from between my down-tilted blinds. It's quite sublime really. The night after the eclipse the moon was full, and shone light brighter than a LED headlight in the dead of the night. My bedroom was so well illuminated that I could read Snow Crash just by moonlight alone. I didn't want to risk ruining my poor eyes however, so I resisted the urge and simply continued my moon gazing in silence until I drifted into sleep.

Watching the moon seriously makes me wish I owned the old manual canon film camera I like, paired with a sturdy tripod. Equipped with those, I can take photos of the moon with the camera's b-setting. Well... my birthday is coming up... just a thought.
Heh, but seriously, I think I will visit the school a week or two into the school year to ask Mr. Stanley for advice on camera shopping and to give my favourite art teacher -Mrs. John- a present and a big hug.

Teethbrushing Diaries

I started a new tube of toothpaste today, and it tastes like cough syrup.

My Week At Work

For the better part of the last month and a half, I've been feeling mixed towards my job. I fluctuated between enjoying my job then despising it as often as Adam Sandler makes crappy famedy movies these days. But no more. After all of that indecisiveness, I've made an executive decision; I've decided that I don't like my manager. In fact, I don't particularly like my job either. I bow to you all, as I join the rank of the millions of people who also dislike their jobs. Three cheers, hooray!

I've actually concluded my post-camping first week on a pretty high note, in spite of the series of unfortunate mess-ups that I've generated at work in just four work days:

Incident #1:
This particular incident happened directly as a result of camping. You see, I was scheduled for the morning shift starting at 11:00am, I did not expect to arrive home from Harrison lake until 1:00pm the earliest on that same day. Clearly, we have a bit of a problem on our hands.

The most sensible thing I could think to do in such a situation at the time was to call in sick around the time my shift started. So at 11:15, I call, waiting for Mia (whom I was suppose to share a shift with) to pick up. I get the answering machine. No worries, I try again. And again. And again. Each time I was greeted with the mechanical voice of the Studio's answering machine. With no alternative options in sight, I leave a message, explaining my unfortunate case of food poisoning which is inhibiting me from arriving at work. I try to put the problem out of my head, as there is nothing I could do to get to work.

I arrive back home to find a message for me from Jas through my sister; "Where the heck are you, you're suppose to be at work!" I decide not to call back because I'm supposed to be sick. I see Jas two days later, as anticipated, she inquired about my whereabouts on Monday. I recite to her my bad case of the food poisoning like I rehearsed.
She countered quickly, "But when I called your house, your sister told me you weren't home."
"Well that's because I spent the day at a friend's house. "
Jas looked at me with a raised eyebrow. She doesn't buy it. Mind you, I don't blame her, to an experienced manager like herself, my little bluff was probably as convincing as trying to tell her I'm related to a three-toed sloth.

I shrug it off, head home as usual and RPG my evening away.

Incident #2:
A woman from another branch was coming in Friday to evaluate me and two of my co-workers. I had stayed up late the previous night reading Snow Crash, so I get out of bed groggily and glare at my alarm clock, it was 8:45am. I had about half an hour before I leave for work, so I take my time and meander slowly around the house, in and out of the washroom then into the kitchen. I turn on an element to preheat for some scrambled eggs, before I threw a casual glance at the oven clock, the bright green digital numbers on the black screen reflected the time: 9:55. Holy crap. It happened again! My goddamned alarm clock malfunctioned again and messed up the time.

Needless to say, I was forced to call in work, and explain that I was going to be about twenty minutes late. On my evaluation day. I show up, then try my best to make up for it by taking initiative and being hyper attentive when my evaluator spoke. In the end though, I still did an average job.

I shrug it off, head to UBC and wander around for a couple of hours, then headed home and read some Snow Crash.

Incident #3:
So I'm sharing a shift with Mia, and we had an appointment coming up in about thirty minutes. The studio is empty save for the two of us, Mia's making phone calls, all the basic things that need to be done are done, and there doesn't seem to be a single customer within thirty square foot of the Studio. I figured I could probably read for ten minutes or so until the appointment time. I'm standing at the counter and reading about the Metaverse, when I heard foot steps coming from behind. I decide it's best that a customer doesn't see my reading at the counter, so I quickly put my book away as the person approached. I turn around and met the gaze of my manager.
"Oh hi Jas!" I greeted, astonished at her presence.
"What's this?" she asked , as she grabbed my book out of my hand, she took one look, her face went from stern to angry.
"You're reading a book!" she screeched, rather stating the obvious.
She then proceeded to spend the next ten, fifteen minutes lecturing me about how we don't get paid to stand around and read. I apologize, promise not to let it happen again with a finger crossed behind my back.


I guess I'm just pretty laid back about my work, while my manager's strung up so tight that I wouldn't be surprised if she had a wedgie half the time. I'm considering starting the hunt again. I'll probably want to keep this job around, however, for both the income and the experience/credentials. Also, I feel that one of the major reasons I don't enjoy work is because of how much my attitude differs from my manager's. Maybe my job could be more enjoyable if I worked at the Brentwood branch. Though it would make for an awkward conversation explaining to my boss that I want to transfer to a farther branch because I don't like her.

It Buzzes...

It buzzes.

As I sit here typing away, it continues to buzz. The fly flies circles around and around the perimeter of my bedroom. The small ball of dirty black hovers momentarily every now and then before resting on my ceiling fan, then proceeding to heartily slam itself against my window repeatedly before moving on, buzzing incessantly as it resumes its laps around my walls. The buzzing noise increases in volume at the fly approaches my desk; then it recedes as it distances itself once more, before approaching again, in an endless cycle.

It buzzes.

As I re-enter my bedroom a few moments later with a most dramatical entrance, fly zapper in one hand, rolled up newspaper in the other. Slowly, fly zapper raised in the air, I inch towards the fly, as it rests on my lamp. I hold my breath and swing down, I miss. It buzzes, as I flail my arms around wildly like a bear with a honey comb stuck on its head.

It buzzes.

As I sit down in defeat. I open my Opera browser and decided to do some reading to distract myself from the eternal buzzing. I indulge myself in some Wikipedia and Slashdot articles, intermittent with occasional outbursts of profanity as I swipe viciously at the fly when it gets too close to my head. After some Bash.org and forum surfing I come across this:

I have a very serious problem. I'm fucking crying because of how stupid I am.

Okay, so my girlfriend was supposed to come over to my house today because I was going to go take her to a movie. She lives about 20 minutes away, and the movie we were supposed to see started at 4:15, which was in about 40 minutes. I figured "cool, I'll just play Pokemon while I wait".

So I'm playing Pokemon, and having a pretty damn good time. Anyway, she finally does show up, except she's crying as she walks into my room. Instead of doing the right thing by comforting her, I half-focus on my game and her. She starts telling me her cat died, and just as she was getting into it, I get into a random encounter in my game.

A shiny pidgey. Holy shit. (For those of you who don't know/care, shiny pokemon have less than a 1/1000 chance of appearing). I stare into my screen in amazement, yelling "holy shit, YES", interrupting her mid-story. She sobs more, and she starts to yell "You don't even fucking care! YOU JUST WANT TO PLAY YOUR FUCKING GAME!" I'm still looking at my screen, still focusing on catching my shiny pidgey, when she walks over, and tosses the game against the wall. I run over and pick up my DS hoping that nothing has changed on screen, and quickly noticed that she broke it. My system and my shiny pidgey, gone forever.

I start screaming every obscenity I know, and started flailing my arms around. I didn't know she was behind me, and apparently I backhanded her in the face while I was being a dumbass and swinging my fists around. She yells out "FUCK YOU", and runs out of my house in tears.

What have I done? I've fucked up so badly, and I need to know how to approach her. I don't want a game of Pokemon to be responsible for ruining my best relationship ever. Help me.

I stare blankly at my computer screen before exploding in laughter. I laugh for a good twenty minutes, then I remembered,

It buzzes.

I think I'm going to look for a net. Wish me luck.

On Home Owning

So it has been almost two weeks now living in my new home. I'd have to say that it has been quite enjoyable. I've experienced freedom here not quite like anywhere else. Living in a house you (or your family I suppose) owns is great; you can raise kittens, fry pancakes at 2:00am, and urinate on your walls. Now all of that is great and all, however, I was naive and failed to consider some of the less desired aspects of being home owners: and that is the responsibility to answer your door. Why may that be such a dangerous task? Well, I found out today that just outside your front door, in the neighbourhood, lurks the devious door-to-door sales person, the mail man, and of course, the Jehova's Witnesses. When you're not careful, these shady figures can push you into a corner and cause you to be late for work. I've learned a valuable lesson today, and I must improve my skills of pretending-I'm-not-home when someone undesireable comes knocking.

So Here I Am

So here I am, reporting from my lovely little house on Forglen Drive, in my lovely little room with the wooden wall. Evidently, the internet drought has passed, and I am grateful to be both alive and well. The internet drought wasn't nearly as terrible as I had anticipated. For one thing, it wasn't all that hard to find tasks to do around the house during those first few days, nor was I ever short of small errands to run to the bank or to the library.

The oh so wonderful experience of spending your first three days in a new house is likened to having every single item in your possession misplaced. It took me thirty minutes to find my work clothes, before I could hastily jump into them, stuff bread in my mouth before running out the door to embark on my fifteen minute journey to Metrotown. Finding my way there for the first time went relatively smoothly, as I had unmistakable landmarks in the form of the four or five high-rise towers that surrounded the mall; I was able to reach my destination in under thirty minutes, only about ten minutes longer than the projected amount of time. The return trip, however, did not go quite as smoothly.

You see, if you aren't already aware, I am notoriously bad with directions on foot. I can be walking straight down the street in a slightly unfamiliar neighbourhood, make a simple turn left or right, become engulfed in a sensation of absolute daze, then lose my place in space along with my sense of direction. This was precisely what transpired (multiple times) on my first attempt to navigate home from the mall. Now in my defense, the landmarks that allowed me to arrive at Metrotown with relative ease were not present on the way home. I had no large looming buildings protruding in the skyline to act as my guiding light home; I think it's fair to say that the difficulty level of this journey was thus at least doubled. I also decided to take a different route than the one that I had taken to arrive at the mall, I decided to look for a shorter way that led me straight into the center of the neighbourhood and to my house, rather than circling around the main streets which outlined the small neighbourhood, like I have done that morning. It had to be done eventually. So I courageously stepped into the labyrinth of a neighbourhood, shortly before proceeding to get lost.

Forty minutes later I arrive home. Utterly exhausted and disoriented, I consulted a map. Take one glance at the map and you will understand. -Black outlines the most efficient route, red outlines the route I took before finally arriving home.

I regret to say that since that first day's strenuous adventure home, I have experienced that woozy feeling in my head that proceeded complete disorientation a number of times. I must have taken at least five different and inventive routes home in just eight days here. I've decided to stick with the black outlined route in my future days here to save myself some trouble until further notice.

1 Day Before Moving Day

So my time here is finally up, starting tomorrow I will be sleeping in my new house (I use that term loosely, because the house isn't actually new). Hoorah! I am actually starting to feel the excitement between all the packing, lifting, vacuuming, sneezing, and unloading. Today was also the first time I have seen my new house; it's stone mosaic and darkwood exterior seems to whisper its stories to you; you know, the sort of stories that give a house a personality, like murder stories that took place in the basement, or scandals, or weed dealings. It's really quite the quaint little house; that would have a splendid view of the sunset(sunrise?) if it wasn't for the ugly giant trees in the neighbouring backyard.

I was working away like a busy beaver unloading in the new house with my dad(we cheated and started moving early), when he informed me of the upcoming internet drought. I panicked; oh how will I survive without my beloved internet for an entire four days? I barely survived the last time the internet failed for four whole hours. I simply love my personal internet too much to withstand having it torn away from me for such a length of time, oh the despair! It was in the midst of my grief that a solution presented itself in the form of a light bulb flicking on; I must as quickly as possible binge download and stock my computer with as much manga as possible, to tide me over with for the duration of the drought; in addition I must also reinstall Veoh and binge download movies. As I type this, volumes and volumes of manga are being downloaded into my Sysreset folder, I am also monitoring the download of three movies (12 Monkeys, What the bleep Do We Know, and American Psycho). Drastic times call for drastic measures, but I will be well equipped to survive the impending drought. If my movie downloads cannot be completed before I pass out in front of the computer, I will always have the public library close by my new house for video rentals!

It's a strange phenomenon, but the basement suite almost seems smaller now with all the furniture as well as kitchen-living room partition gone. I guess the partitioning and furniture gave the space a sense of depth that is non-existent in the now vacant lot; my room is reduced to an empty box with a dinky little table, and a pillow for a seat in front of the computer. I will be here for the next couple of hours tending to my downloads with snacking anchovies for company. They really are overrated, this is probably thanks to Futurama giving me unrealistic expectations for the small salty snack fish. This morning I had quite the satisfying breakfast however,

doesn't my last meal in this house look delicious? The new big kitchen in the new house hopefully will inspire a bountiful amount of bread, pastry, and cookie baking. On my sister's part of course, not mine, I don't cook.

But ladies and gentlemen, I really must be taking a break. I over exerted myself today and wounded up getting jabbed in the ribs by a doorknob. It's exceedingly unpleasant, and I should lie down and nurse my aching back and ribs before I resume my download surveillance. Man I feel old.