May I have your attention please?

Earlier this week, I had little else to do and so I was bitching out thinking refelctively about how nobody listens to me or cares what I have to say. Then I started listening to myself (including reading old hidden journal entries on my xanga) and I realized that maybe it's for the better. I mean, holy mackerel, I'm such a whiny teenager, making it seem like I have these insurmountable life problems when really I know and have always known that I've got it pretty damn good. Most days I'm pleased/content with myself and what I do but on the occasional off-days I make it seem like the world is imploding.

So to the people who listen to me, thanks, and I admire pity am impressed with you for continuing to do so. And to the people who don't, good idea.

Be Prepared!

First day in Toronto. Bought: underwear, pyjamas, hair products. Accidentally dyed blue/weird gray in laundry: scarf, t-shirt, cardigan.

Oh shee-it. I would be the worst Boy Scout ever.

Screw you, MS Word.

You know what? Mojito IS a word. I don't care what your goddamn dictionary says.

Oscar-Worthy

I am entering my father's house, and my brother is there, ambling from the computer den to the kitchen. I meet him halfway, in the hallway, and he flashes me a smile as well as the cover of a DVD I don't recognize. "I saw your movie," he says matter-of-factly.

"What?" I don't remember what 'my movie' is.

Albert pushes the DVD out towards me. On the front cover I see that it is directed by Amnon Buchbinder, a Canadian writer/director who taught a workshop I attended back in February. The title is unfamiliar and not very appealing anyways. It doesn't really look like my kind of movie. Albert takes it, turns it over, and puts it back in my hand so I am reading the back cover. He points at the bottom, where it clearly reads, "Screenplay by: Edna Chan."

"Huh," I say, mostly to myself.

We descend into the basement, where a 52" projector screen awaits my undoubtedly Oscar-worthy movie. Popping the DVD in, it somehow makes sense that Amnon Buchbinder would use one of my screenplays. He did take about three pieces after the workshop and not tell me why. I can very dimly recall what the screenplays I wrote were about, but no details come to mind. I can't even think of a character name. All I remember was something to do with placenta.

As we watch the movie, I realize that I don't remember much of this so-called screenplay of mine whatsoever. My brother laughs a lot and gives me funny looks throughout the film. I understand why, as I see red-saturated images of peasants gathering wheat, and feeding a vegetarian clone of Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors. Then a group of little people dances around in a circle outside a 1800's storefront. Did I really write this? It's awful.

I awake to find that I am frowning. I look around my room from the safety of my bed, and it takes a long moment before I am able to shake the chills that have taken over my body.

Hell on Earth

I was at the University train station today. I don't remember it ever being so eerie before. There were moths down there, for God's sake, in the middle of the afternoon. I wouldn't have been surprised if rats, snakes and bats started appearing from down the tunnel.

Has anybody else noticed how going down the six-or-so sets of stairs to the platform feels like you're going to hell? A hell reserved for yuppies, metrosexuals, and people fashionable to wear their big Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses underground. Walking down those creepy horror-movie stairs made me want to scream out my sinful confessions left and right.

Newness

I have a new 80GB black iPod Classic. It is truly a thing of beauty. No matter how much my subconscious anarchist asshole inner self tells me I'm being a trendwhore teenager by getting one, I'm still admiring myself in the new, perfect mirror that is the silvery back of this wondrous music machine. Even the trendy yuppie-esque black leather case it's sitting in can't diminish its pure awesome.


What else is new? I read a good book: The Gum Thief, by Douglas Coupland. I'm back from camping. I really need a haircut. My brother's coming over sometime tonight. Mom's angry.

That one's not too new, and honestly I'm not sure what I did this time... but I had a revelation yesterday: This is like having Hugo Weaving's face as my mother. She always looks annoyed, and damn if I can tell whether she actually is or not. Usually she is. But on the off chance that she's actually not silently fuming at the world, and I assume that she is, she gets doubly pissed.

What is it with Asian mothers? They draw all these crazy lines everywhere and if you even cross one of them in your head, they know(!), and it's like Thor has found a suitable human host through whom to channel his supreme Norse wrath.

Too Much Hugo Weaving

1. Quels adjectifs te décrivent?
- Je pense qu je suis égoïste, indépendante, et un peu créative. (Comme Agent Smith.)