Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Horror Story Excerpt


This place, so strange and unreal...the air is constantly moving and shifting and the light is far too bright. The people are staring; I don't belong here. I want to go back. Leave this place and never return. I am forced to come here, to endure this day after day. And yet it is always unfamiliar. Always foreign. Always hell.

- from Anastasia's Tales of Going Outside

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Song 5: Little Lying Man

(To the tune of Little Lion Man)

Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be living here again
Weep, little lying man,
You're not as sly as you were at the start
Caught you steal and caught you lie
Take all the stuff that you have left
Get the hell out of here and don’t come back or I’ll take off your head

But it was not your booze but mine
Oh yes, you stepped quite out of line
You’re really moving out this time
Don’t you touch my beer
Don’t you touch my beer

Tremble for yourself, my man,
You know that I have caught you steal before
Tremble, little lying man,
I’ll be changing the lock upon my door
Your face isn’t wanted in this place,
Your stupid mess has made this home a wreck
Now leave from this house or else spend your days worrying for your neck

But it was not your booze but mine
Oh yes, you stepped quite out of line
You’re really moving out this time
Don’t you touch my beer

But it was not your booze but mine
Oh yes, you stepped quite out of line
You’re really moving out this time
Don’t you touch my beer
Don’t you touch my beer

[harmonizing]

But it was not your booze but mine
Oh yes, you stepped quite out of line
You’re really moving out this time
Don’t you touch my beer

But it was not your booze but mine
Oh yes, you stepped quite out of line
You’re really moving out this time
Don’t you touch my beer
Don’t you touch my beer

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Poetry Corner 4

why do you cry like you have not a choice
why are you sad like you’re trying to go fix it
digging so deep like you want your own grave
lay in it, sleep, like I’m forcing you to do it
I don’t know what you’re doing
I don’t know what you’re doing

why is your sky oh so gloomy, my sweet?
pain clouds the sun like you need it to be dark now
was it so bright that it’s too much to bear?
darken the light like you think this will be better
I don’t know what you’re thinking
I don’t know what you’re thinking

why do you cry like you had not a choice
why do you hurt like I gave no chance to fix it
out of your mind you don’t know how to deal
why don’t you find an excuse, it’s what you do now…
you don’t know what you’ve done, dear
you don’t know what you’ve done, dear

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Vlog 7: All about me! Yay!



---
Apparently people have been commenting on my previous videos. I think this one is my favourite:

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Real Things I've Said to Guys

If I had to choose between you and a miniature lap giraffe, I would consider you for a good couple of hours before going with the miniature lap giraffe.

I love your face so much I want to peel it off and wear it as my own.

If you had a van full of candy, I would not hesitate to get in.

You are what magic smells like.

You are more precious to me than the ring was to Gollum.

If you died, I would consider necrophilia.

I think you would taste good, like pineapples and sunshine and despair.

Out all the people I stalk, you are by far the 9th most interesting.

Sometimes I sneak into your house to sniff your pillow.

You look like you are in psychological state of content when you enter Morpheus's realm.

And so Zeus said onto Michelangelo "Ye shall take that marble yonder, the marble of the Gods, and ye shall mold us something spiffy." And so it was that your face came to be.

You look like you would be ok at angry sex.

I think we need to run away together to sing songs and grow oranges and be merry.

I have a voodoo doll of you. I lick its face every Tuesday.

I think of you when I touch my hair.

I wanna be your baby's momma.

Would you like to hear the names I picked out for our children?

I love you like a necrophiliac loves an open casket.

I feel comfortable committing murder for you.

You must be stage 3 syphilis, 'cause I can't get you out of my head.

Everytime you smile, God revives a kitten he killed everytime someone masturbated.

When we're apart, I miss you more than a stormtrooper misses his target.

One of my favourite hobbies is taking pictures of you with my phone when you're not looking and then photoshoping out all of your many, many flaws so you can be just as pretty on the outside.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Short Short-Story 2: Confessions of a Crazy Cat Lady


Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Occupy University

I was reading this article about Occupy Wallstreet (read it) and it inspired me to start my own movement.


It might be too easy to dismiss the Occupy University movement as a first-world problem.

Just because you go to class it doesn’t entitle you to a good grade, some people grumble. Why are you protesting? Why aren’t you studying? What are you doing here? Next you’ll surge onto campus to complain about the decline in the quality of ballpoint pens!

But that would be unfair.

I’ve seen some of these students before – at the rally to bring back Beer Gardens, when we poured beer into our university mugs and cheered.

Now the stakes are higher.

“I did everything I was supposed to do: went to some of the classes, skimmed through the assigned readings, handed in my homework relatively on time. 3 month later I have nothing but a C to show for it,” complains one person while checking her twitter.

“My professor said that if we work hard we can get any grade we want. Well my paper might not have been the best but I told him how hard I work and what a good person I am but I didn't get the grade I wanted. I didn't want… the B-,” writes another.

This is not our fault.

Growing up, we were told: you are unique. You are special. You are brilliant. Apparently professors are unaware of this. "You must rewrite this paper. Go the library, do some research, use correct citation."

Half an hour later, look at us. Paper still not good enough. This is not what it said on the syllabus.

Is it our fault the professors try to talk while we are texting? Is it our fault the university can't recognize our brilliance? Is it our fault our moms are not here to wash our clothes so we don't smell like nachos and too much AXE body spray?

We did what we were told to do.

Now we need someone to tell us what to do next because we can't think for ourselves.

The students of University are mostly twenty-somethings. Most of those I spoke to were in the failing range. Some had a  “marginal pass.” They aren’t rebels without a cause. They’re rebels with a surplus of causes.

“Give me the grade I deserve,” reads one sign, “End the Madness.”

"Legalize marijuana," read another, who might have confused this with the rally two streets down.

If you're looking for a coherent message, you won't get it from these students. Instead of testing us on what you think we should know, a student is saying, test us on what we actually know. When I walk away from the group, one is arguing in favor of no grades, another suggesting that there should be no classes till noon. Some are just plain lost and looking for their next class.

Lucy, a self-described genius, is delighted that the protest is happening. “When I was in elementary I was totally an A+ student,” she says. “We used to get stickers as well. It’s a shame professors are so mean when they mark – it hurts my feelings, makes me feel terrible about myself."

“This whole thing is basically a big discussion, dude,” Andy, the dreadlocked skater of Liberal Arts, tells me. “It’s about getting together a bunch of people who realize that there’s a problem and trying to figure out what the solution is, man.” Easier said than done. The protesters I talk to agree on three things. They are not sure what the point is yet, but would like to find out. The system is broken. And the profs, they feel, are ignoring them.

We are angry that professors pretend they have lives or somewhere to be. Something to do other than help us at a moment's notice. This is about fixing the system, “building a university that caters to the student's needs. That gives us the grades we need to get our degrees,” another protester, Chad, tells me. Or something like that.