“Do not operate heavy machinery” – That includes pants, microwaves, and washing machines.

The world is a lonesome cup of coffee… At least thats what Abbey Lincoln thought. My thoughts on the world right now are fuzzy and dull. Similar to looking through an old shower curtain when your showering, trying to remember what you were doing there in the first place. 

Ah, drugs. You make my life hell. 

Last Friday I was chosen by the evil gods of pain to get my wisdom teeth ripped out from their plush rose coloured cradles a.k.a my gums because well frankly, since one is causing pain, why not tear all of them out and have a bloody party. 

I was put out for the blood fest fortunately, but unfortunately I have to be awake for the recovery part.

I was lucky though to have my mother fly down from up north and fuss over me while I was still drooling and swollen up like a chipmunk. Everyone needs some motherly love. It’s the best form of healing I think.

But that ended Sunday when she flew back to the wilds of my homeland. And I was left in the rain puddles trying to remember what colour pill to take next and how many hours to wait in between tylenol doses.

I am a great example of a young adult who when is sick- becomes very much like a baby worm and loses all brain function. 

I thought I had it in the bag- I really did. 

But then Monday morning I woke up, missed my alarm, and had 15 minutes to get ready for work. 

I should have called in sick when I found myself getting confused on how to put on my pants. 

The label on the pain killers said “do not operate heavy machinery” – 

Having to coach myself to put one leg in one pant leg, step into other pant leg, then shimmy up to waist, felt like operating heavy machinery. I was in a pathetic state.

I left work early Monday.

And Today as well.

“Grinning and bearing it” technique of healing is not working.

So I am resorting to “hiding from the world and licking my wounds” technique for tomorrow.

Between the pain resonating from the four empty sockets in the back of my mouth, the side effects of the drugs, and having IBS (which makes taking hard drugs super tricky- due to weak stomach and intestines) I feel like a big ball of goo unable to process anything.

I was expecting the pain from the wisdom teeth, but having my stomach and intestines throw up their arms in protest to anything with codine in it…

Not helpful.

It is really a shame that you can’t set up a meeting with your stomach, preparing it for what is to come, for example: “Hey stomach, I am going to have t3s to help my mouth heal, life isn’t about you so don’t be so fussy”, sort of like preparing cats for when you will have a baby, you know, making sure the cat doesn’t decide to suffocate the baby, being comfortable with you not paying attention to it, and yes, teaching the cat that the play pen that cost a couple hundred dollars from IKEA is not a litter box. My stomach can be compared to a tom cat- who doesn’t give a rats ass whether I’m on a date, in class, or at work etc. to let me know how its feeling. 

I don’t mind cats…

as long as I don’t have to own one. 

My tom cat of a stomach also can speak english it seems, because what can be more annoying than a cat who can win a swearing match. 

. Right now I picture my stomach with a thick east coast accent, yowling in protest, because for a few years now my digestive system has been pushing itself to the front- always getting the attention. I can picture it planning an “occupy wallstreet” movement with my small and large intestine, clearly not paying attention that all energy needs to be focused on the four pulsating pink sore mushy masses in the back of my mouth covered in stitches.

Again; another similarity to cats and my stomach:

They have this wild idea that my job is to serve them.

My digestive system and I have a love hate relationship.

Right now I hate it.

Maybe my intestines would have different accents.


But still rowdy cats. 

The stomach definitely has some anger issues.

I don’t need the therapy- my cat.. err… stomach does.









Soon I will become the adult version of me… “Hmm maybe prostitute isn’t the right word. Somehow I sense grandma would not like that.”

Just to let all my relatives know I have no intentions on becoming a prostitute.

It is simply a metaphor.


So I got a blackberry, and you know what happens when you give a human something that vibrates,flashes pretty colours when you get a message, something well…

awesome, shiny, and new. You become a savage cell-phone user…

You get into the habit of procrastination, oh trust me I was pretty good at procrastinating before I got this beast of a phone. But I can’t blame this phone for me being lazy enough to screw over the blogging world.

So I decided to blame it on being a grade 12 student.

This whole grade 12 thing?

Tis a wee bit nerve-racking, all this pressure to become something,

all this pressure to not end up sleeping outside Tim Horton’s in a cardboard box having entertaining conversations with a tomcat who could less if you were dead or alive.

My older brother got it easy! Ever since he was what like a preteen he knew what his career would be.

Me? I am not so lucky, my mind was like a prostitute to careers, it would change its fancy everyday. Hmm maybe prostitute isn’t  the right word. Somehow I sense grandma would not like that.

Maybe sleaze is better since I didn’t make a profit for changing my mind so many friggin’ times??


It seemed everyday something new and exciting interested me, and I set my sights on being that certain amazing person when I grow up.


** I am just that brilliant that I can’t go find a dictionary and spell some of these words correctly, and the spell check can’t spell them either… ^

maybe I was one of those kids whose curiosity was on overdrive. Not like A.D.H.D though mind you…

It seemed spastic, my mind always is spastic, have you read my writing ?

It’s like a Pomeranian chasing a laser pointer,

on the couch,

attacking the curtains,

smashing into a wall,

jumping repeatedly on the spot,

drool flying everywhere,

I think you get it.

Anyways, do you understand what I just said?

Its okay if you don’t just smile and nod that’s what people usually do, well that’s what I do when I’m stuck in a situation where I have no clue what the hell is being said, (like in math class).

So I’m sure everybody realises that normal people need money to prosper, especially when your last name isn’t “Bieber” or “Sheen” or “Woods” they just need to show up, play a sport and shave on TV,say something or sleep with someone, sing a song that makes little girls wail asking their parents “why can’t I have that JB cutout cardboard that is  life-size  in the shoppers drug mart???”

Like I said, I need a job that can support my Pomeranian of a mind and well, I think being a Pomeranian wouldn’t make any money.

I have always had a knack for drawing and writing, making people laugh, and helping people when they are stuck in a tiffy.

I invented the word “tiffy” to describe that moment when you find yourself standing under a large industrial fan while someone is throwing shit at it. Maybe I didn’t invent the word tiffy but I’m sure that my definition of tiffy was never thought of before.Ive said tiffy to many times…

And now ladies and gentlemen we move on to the conclusion: precisely a more thought-provoking, delicate matter…

I’ve read in magazines that sometimes if you ask your friends what they could see you doing as a career it can be a good tip in helping you decide what you will be doing after the sweet/nasty life of highschool. More nasty than sweet to be honest, more like sitting in a hot tub of acid with frustrating passive aggressive hamsters. Anyways. I’ve got ten months to decides what my next step will be after the exams, after that hat with the annoying tassel, after I get prettied up to spend five hours in a prom dress, after I move onto the next step of my life. I will become an adult version of me.

Why do I find that mildly disturbing?

I’d jump from one scenario to the next: from highschool kid to “______”.
*okay not all the hamsters attending highschool with me are passive aggressive, nor are they hamsters…
How do you know what you want to do? Does it fall from the sky and smack you in the head? Do you have to go through a near death experience to know what you want to do? Or can you just wake up one day, and swing your feet outta your bed, sit up, yawn, and say ” I know what to do with my life now”
Well, if it was that easy, maybe there wouldn’t be anybody having deep conversations with an aloof cat beside the dumpster.

Hopefully the adult version of me will look back on this while I am sitting in a comfortably furnished loft, (the kind you see in CSI… You know the ones where they find the dead model in the bathtub, only mine would not have a dead model in the bath tub, only a rubber ducky…) then I would laugh at how pathetically stressed I was over something that somehow figured itself out, then go to the nearby Timmy’s and order two lemon and honey teas, tea bag left in, and nod kindly to the scruffy man and his cat sitting outside the door, sit beside him and indulge in conversations only cats could think of.