Artistry

Friday I was carrying a croissant in a clear plastic bag as I walked from school to my mom's office. I was thinking about eating it when I passed by a homeless person sitting in our school field, and thought instead, wouldn't a good person give their croissant to a homeless person? I kept walking.

Later I had a story concept about a little girl who has a cookie and when a homeless person asks her for it, she gives it up willingly. The next day on the news, a homeless man is found dead near the school with a plastic bag on his head and a cookie crushed into crumbs in his stiff, clenched fist.

Imagination replaces guilt. An artist, all right.

From a Promise to a Threat

The future is scary. Oh yes I'm only fifteen and I have a whole lot of it before me, and it is damn scary. Looking at schools is scary. Thinking about trying to find a real job is scary.

It's scary because I'm a hedonist and the idea of a life that I have chosen but that don't like is the worst thing I can imagine. I want my life to be good enough for me, whatever 'good' means. (Starving artist/full-time waitress? Works for me.) I only know what 'good' doesn't mean: having a job I despise, and being tied down with bad commitments. I don't want to screw myself over by getting myself into something I hate. I think it might just be a run-from-responsibility thing.

Anyways, I'm looking at applications for a Master of Arts in Journalism at Columbia University and all this reality just came crashing down on me. It also looks like my French isn't good enough to land me a page position in the House of Commons in Ottawa so I can get a BA at Carleton, either.


Why is real life so expensive?

Cats and Insomnia

I'm wide awake at almost two in the morning after two hours of trying to sleep at a friend's house. Luckily she has two very friendly cats to keep me company, as well as a TV but she's sleeping so I'm not going to pop in Little Miss Sunshine, much as I'd like to. One cat, Conan, is particularly fond of sitting or lying on me, though he seems to find my ribs quite a mystery and was clawing at them through my shirt until he got bored and took a nap.

Cats are such good company. I want a cat. They're selfish, quiet, and slink around the house doing not much at all. Like me at home. Of course they demand occasional attention, like me, and even sometimes like to be cuddly, like me. The only reason God didn't make me a cat is because I love chocolate and have mild caffeine addiction so if I were a cat I'd be dead. Some things were never meant to be.

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.