Well hello out there, internet! Where have I been?

Everywhere but here, it seems.

I have two other (more personal and less grammatically correct) blogs out there in the great blog wilderness, one that is almost anonymous and another that I use to update family and friends on the strange things that come to mind and the exciting events of my life.

I’ve just finished up my final semester at the University of Victoria, and am now looking to expand my horizons, change things up, and do what I’ve been talking about for over a year now: write books. Novels. Novellas. I don’t know, something. There’s so much inside, and after having read a little of what is out there on various literary agent blogs, I feel like I can do this; there is a place for me among giants.

Are you ready world? Here I am!

every picture tells a story

The girl in the photo is drunk. She drank gin and tonic all night because she likes how they glow a fluorescent blue under black lights, and is now drinking as much water as possible as she has to work the next day. She is trying to swallow two aspirins that are stuck somewhere in her throat. She can taste aspirin dust. She’s wearing a skirt. Who wears a skirt to a punk rock show? She remembers thinking as she walked into the club. She didn’t really care. She is also wearing a t-shirt with cartoon pictures depicting cliché evil villains, such as “the evil robot”, “the gangster puppet” and “mad scientist”. Not exactly bad-ass.

The girl is in the apartment she is subletting from a stranger she found on Craigslist from Xalapa, Mexico, in the tiny bathroom. She is thirsty; too thirsty to make it all the way to the kitchen for a drink. The bathroom is literally four steps from the bed in that apartment. She thinks it is funny to take photos of herself when she is drunk. She is right. This girl just got back to the ancient apartment building from a punk rock show, which happened nearby. She is covered in bruises. She had elbowed her way to the very front of the mosh pit to get in front. She is proud of the fact that she can always get to the front, and doubly proud that the singer of this band came into the crowd and she wrapped her arms around his waist and ultimately hugged him as he was singing. She is disgusted by the thought of strangers’ sweat on her clothes. She is glad she didn’t hurt her nose because her septum piercing is still not quite healed.

This girl will later decide not to tell anybody about hugging the singer of the band once she sobers up, as it is really not something to be proud of. He is horse-faced and greasy. She will look him up on the internet and feel as though she did something wrong.

On her death bed she will not remember that moment, it was nothing. She may not even remember liking punk rock.

what’s left unsaid

“Hey Marcia, can you please stock the bread shelves like I asked you ten minutes ago?” Brad said, crossing his arms and frowning.

“Oh, um…I’m just tagging these brownies, I’ll put the bread out in a sec.” She smiled, looking up at him sideways. He didn’t look happy. She looked back at the line of stickers she had arranged on the counter. She would be done in a couple of minutes.

“Yeah, well hurry it up, we got nothing out there hardly at all.”

“Okay, sure.”

Brad turned away from her abruptly, and walked into the back room. He came out, arms loaded with boxes. He was carrying too many, and Marcia could see the strain in his face.

“Do you need some help?” She asked.

“Just do finish what you’re doing.” He was bringing the bread out and stacking the recently delivered boxes directly beside where she was working. As he went to the back again, she discreetly took half a step closer to the boxes. When Brad came back she leaned her body toward him. His arm accidentally brushed hers. She shivered.

Marcia continued working, slowing her stickering down a notch. Brad was working right beside her now. His body was close to hers. She breathed deeply, in and out. Brad smelled like sweat and kitchen. She turned her body toward him in a flirtatious pose, sticking her chest out, as he pried open the cardboard box of bread. He used the date-gun to stick best-before-dates on the loaves, so they would be ready for her to put them out immediately

She was watching the concentration on his face. He had such strong features. He must have sensed her staring at him, because he turned toward her, leaning one hand on the counter.

“Hey, Marcia?”

“Yes, Brad?” Her voice had become tremulous and an octave higher. She was blushing. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes?”

He looked her in the eyes. Marcia held her breath.

“Go help that customer.”

Colored Skin

I’m lying there on the paper sheet that is spread across the massage table, gritting my teeth. The tattoo machine buzzes maniacally as he dips the needles into the ink cup and tells a joke. He mixes the greens and the whites and they combine to make a minty shade; my arm is beautiful. Earlier that week a woman  asked me if I could even get a boyfriend, because I have so many tattoos.  Stigma and prejudice still reign. I think they hurt more than the needles.

As seen on the six sentences blog.

Deconstructing Beds

This is the Writer’s Gym.

It is full of ideas to help combat writer’s block. I am currently working on one for a portfolio that is due soon; it’s really interesting.
Deconstructing beds. (Alison Fell)
Basically what it recommends is this:
1. Write one hundred words about your childhood bed.
2. Write one hundred words about your current bed.
3. Write one hundred words about your dream bed.

Try to distance yourself from what you have written. Maybe give it a few days before you come back to it.

4. Literally cut up what you’ve written – separate nouns from verbs, nouns from nouns, adjectives from nouns…you get the picture.
5. Use the words to create new sentences. Try to construct bits of prose, but let your automatic responses guide you. Use your intuition. All you should worry about are basic syntax rules. Don’t worry if it doesn’t make sense.
6. Go over your new collage of sentences and phrases and read them aloud. Do any of them resonate with you? Think about why.

This is one way to come up with original ideas. I am excited to cut mine up today!

http://finditandpassiton.blogspot.com/

one bar of chocolate

I am tearing the paper off. It’s fancy; it was glued shut at the flap. All $6 worth of chocolate is wrapped in a golden foil.

The brand of the chocolate is adjectives stuck together; color words. The reason is a mystery to me. The chocolate is neither of those colors. It is a rich decadent radiant chocolatey brown.

It has almonds.

I can’t wait.

My mouth is watering. My emotions are screaming for satisfaction. My twisting insides are angry. I could cry, but why? A cute kitten on t.v. is too cute. My boyfriend said “stop poking me” in a way that made me question our entire relationship. Does he really love me? I’m sure he doesn’t. It’s absolutely illogical and absolutely real, in that ridiculous hormonal way. My eyes tear up.

Eat the entire bar. That’s what I’ll do. That’s all I want to do.

There are 30 rectangles of chocolate. 3 x 10

I’m salivating. My tongue is empty. It’s a blank slate. My teeth are aching to chew the giving chocolate. Ingredients: organic raw cane sugar, organic almonds…organic organic organic. I don’t care. Under the ingredients the wrapper warns that if you are allergic to chocolate, then do not eat it. This is ridiculous.

Minimum cocoa solids 34%, with a seductive aroma, this is what the package says.

I hold off on eating the first square. Torture. I break off what I wanted to be a perfect rectangle with a resounding SNAP. I am angry that a triangular piece comes off rather than a rectangular one. Now the piece is too large and I feel like a pig and I shouldn’t stuff it all into my mouth at once but I do anyway. It has a smooth texture and melts evenly on my tongue.

I don’t want to bite pieces off with my front teeth. I don’t want brown chocolate to be visible if I smile suddenly, which is likely as I watch a popular talk show. This is impossible for any man to understand. How can my thigh muscles all the way to my back hurt? Why do I keep popping so many pills?

Crunchy almonds. The taste fills my mouth: Bitter and Sugary. More sugary than I expected. I close my eyes. Almonds stuck between my back teeth. My teeth ache from the sugar. It’s too delicious. I can’t stop.

I am such a cliché girl today. My uterus is twisting inside my body. I’ve described it in the past as “wringing out a dishcloth”. I’m curled up in the foetal position on the couch.

Melted bits of chocolate are left on my fingers as I finish the first row of rectangles. I lick it off, conscious of the disgusting wet sound it makes. I always make such a fuss when my boyfriend noisily licks his fingers, and am ashamed that I am making the same sounds.

The next row is gone in 2 mouthfuls. I’m on a roll now. Isn’t dark chocolate supposed to be healthy? It has something to do with cancer prevention, probably. I don’t care. I think it tastes the way the color red looks.

Red is my favourite color.

My abdomen is distended grotesquely. “Retaining water” feels disgusting. I stop to take a sip of hot organic carbon-cool coffee, fair trade and locally roasted. I don’t care. Some chocolate was still in my mouth and the combination is heavenly.

I can’t get comfortable. When I curl up and push on my lower stomach with both hands my back aches, but if I don’t my insides cramp.

There are whole almonds buried in the chocolate. I force myself to slow down, because I swallowed without chewing. What a waste. I chew slowly, crunching almonds into slivers and allowing the chocolate to melt.

2 rectangles at at a time go into my mouth now. I’m half done. My face feels greasy.

I am wrapped in a blanket. I wipe my fingers on my pyjama bottoms. Who cares. They’re stupid anyway. Kids cartoon characters. I got them for Christmas. Admittedly, they are comfortable but I will only wear them when I’m sure no cable guys or delivery people will be coming to the door.

How is it possible that there are only 2 rectangle rows left? Oh I am guilty of overeating; sentenced to life with a fat roll. Who cares?

I set the chocolate remains onto the arm of the couch. The paper wrapping is still in my lap. I throw it onto the living room floor, disgusted with my own gluttony.

I break up the remaining 6 squares so they’re all individuals, then shovel 3 in my mouth, chewing rapidly, as though I am starving.

In my mouth, between my teeth and the inside of my cheeks there is chocolate. My tongue is coated with a thick layer of sugary saliva.

It’s gone. I thought there was one more rectangle hidden in the folds of foil but I was mistaken. I thought there was one more.

I am pleased with the clarity I possessed last night in the grocery store, when I decided to only buy two. And one for my boyfriend.

Searching through the grocery bags, he laughed and asked if I had been trick-or-treating.

Endorphins is what this feeling is called. My chocolate afterglow.

The empty foil is taunting me. I hate that foil, and throw it on the floor. I should clean that up. I should brush my teeth. My mouth tastes bitter. I should go for a walk.

I sink deeper into my blankets and turn up the volume on the television. Who cares?