Yesterday I did laundry. Which I actually really kind of enjoy, mostly because when it's dry I get to fold it and organize it all. Maybe I'm a freak.

The point is that yesterday, I decided to wash my sheets so that they'd smell all delicious and clean and I'd sleep better and therefore do better on my exams (studying didn't go so well). So I peeled my sheets off the bed, stuffed them in my canvas laundry bag with some shirts and stuff and headed downstairs to the laundry room.

I crammed everything into the washing machine, turned it on and went back upstairs to work with Cameron while everything washed.

41 minutes later we went back downstairs to put the now clean laundry in the dryer.

I began to pull things out of the washing machine and then proceeded to toss them at Cameron so that he could then go put them in the dryer. The following items were thrown at my boyfriend.


I tend to be overdramatic at times, but I was absolutely mortified when I realized that my soft, fuzzy, honey coloured teddy bear had just gone for a wild ride in the Maytag Coinomatic.

For those of you who don't know, I've had Darcy Bear for almost two and a half years and I adore him. He's pretty much the size of a small newborn and flops around if you don't support his neck. He is also "Surface Washable". He's cute. I love that inanimate bear like it's my child.

Well hopefully I'll love my future children more, because, you know, ACCIDENTALLY PUTTING TINY LOVED ONES THROUGH THE WASHING MACHINE IS VERY, VERY BAD.

Then again, babies would probably cry.
And not be mixed up in the laundry.
And they're not teddy bears.

Anyway, Cameron calmed me down a bit and assured me that I will one day be a good parent and this would not happen again. And we put the laundry in the dryer and Darcy Bear air-dried on the windowsill. We are all fine now.

Nevertheless, the whole ordeal left me quite shaken.

It left Darcy Bear smelling like Gain.


This is rare, and I know my last post clearly stated that I generally do not study, but I have two exams tomorrow and I must study my buns off (teehee) in order to do well. I have a brilliant a story though. But alas, Philosophy exam (last one of my life ever!!!!) is screaming at me from tomorrow and I can't ignore it. Irish is mumbling in the background too so I'll go back to organizing and rewriting my notes until I feel like I have some grasp on the general concepts. Then I'll tell my tale of woe.
Warning, it's very woeful.
But funny.



So hey. It's exam time here at school and I should be studying. People who know me know that generally, I'm not a studier. I am a student who does not study. It's such a common event that I think they should change one of the words because they just aren't related anymore. Mind you, I guess that's why we have the term "First-Year" so that conversations can go as follows:

"And where do you go to school?"
"Oh, I'm a First-Year at University of Ottawa."

Note that this response certainly does not lead you to believe that I should be studying.


Now I'm sad that the academic year is in fact almost over and this excuse just won't hold up for much longer.

Or maybe I'm just disillusioned as it is and First-Years do study.

Never mind.

Lately I have discovered that not only am I a first year, I'm a first-year who doesn't sleep. Also a common ailment according to the newsfeed on facebook that has people posting "Emery Ebeneezer Johnstonfieldser is NOT SLEEPING!?!?!? GYEAH!!???? WHY GOD!?!?!?!??!?! lol" at all hours of the morning, hereby filling my home page with reminders that being a First-Year takes quite a toll on one's sleep patterns.

Mine now consist of lying in bed for a while trying to sleep, trying to read for a while with Tired Eyes, attempting to sleep again, looking at the clock to find that it's 3 0'clock, reading, trying not to recognize the fact that I'm hungry, lying here staring at the cieling listening to cars drive below my window, counting in french, backwards, shifting so that i am lying in a different direction, looking at the clock to see that it is now 6, deciding the day has begun so why not eat, brush my teeth, wash my face, and fall asleep at 7:30 in the morning.

Obviously I'm getting a bit of sleep somewhere along the way and just not realizing it, because I'm still functioning. It's still annoying.

Somewhere before starting the sleep attempts, I have discovered that this guy is hilarious and makes for some good 4 AM chuckles when you're in that "I'm too tired to do anything but remember stupid parts of my day" stage of exhaustion. Go, watch some videos, and remember stupid parts of someone else's day.



I saw this today and thought of you. Why? Because I'm pretty much always thinking of you.



I hate you today
I hated you yesterday too
It probably won't get better
And I'm going to blame you



My teddy bear hates when you call
Because his fur gets damp
From the grip of my sweaty palms
And the ocean that leaks from my eyes.
Every so often I knock my head
Against the
But you just keep pursing your lips
Like they've been dipped in vinegar
And lemonade
And if you cared a bit less
What other people think
You would maybe

I spit.
I yell.
And I bawl my fucking eyes out
After I've bitten through my tongue
My neck is worn out from invisibly nodding
And I reach for my inhaler
While hoping that you would take a breath
And listen to what I don't say.



The other day Tanisha-Who's-Not-Really-Tanisha and I were sitting on my bed discussing waxing our legs. I have never done such a thing before because I'm terrified that it will hurt and I'm a pretty big wuss and I know I'd scream. She says it's not that bad and that if you do it enough the hair just won't grow back. We then started talking about people who wax their arms. This led to my studying of my fine, blond, invisible but abundant arm hair. I then decided it would be a good idea to tell Tanisha about my thoughts when I was younger. I told her that when I was a kid (a ginormous span of my life; hence the use of 'ginormous') I used to really, really love my arm hair because it made me feel like a monkey. And I've always wanted to be a monkey. Named Calypso. Who lived in a treehouse.
I was a bit of a tomboy for a time in my life which was due to the influence of my older brother who was my best friend until he got too cool to hang out with me, but that's a different issue. In my boyish youth I would clamber over rocks, trudge through swampy, soggy ground and try to climb trees. I probably would have been a really good tree climber if I had more suitable trees to practice on. It's hard to be a monkey growing up in central Ontario. All the trees are maple. Maple trees don't have branches lower than a million feet off of the ground. I'm short and a pretty useless jumper. So I mostly stayed on the ground.
I used to get really tanned from spending so much time outside, which was great because then I was more monkey coloured instead of pasty white. Now that I wish I was slightly more tanned so that I can wear white and not look like a ghost, I burn. Maybe I'll go back to wishing I was a monkey. I'll let you know how that goes.
As time progressed, my dreams of reversing evolution faded. I couldn't climb anything, the mosquito population tripled and I was getting too big to clamber on the furniture and hide under the bed. My sister and I began to play more sophisticated role-playing games and I discovered that if I couldn't be a monkey, I still wanted to be hella cool and wild. I wanted to be a badass. I was always a bitch with family issues and I always had the lead role in our games. Sophie, I apologize for being bossy and making you do my bidding under threat of playing alone. I was horrible. But it was only because I was too polite and shy to actually be a badass in real life. I got over the shyness and I'm polite when I should be, but I'm more like I once wished I was. This is probably not a good thing, but we'll deal with problems when they arise.
So shaving my legs with Tanisha's company led to all of these memories and past ambitions bubbling up in my mind. And I realized two things:

1. Even though my arms still have fine hair on them I am not, and never will be a monkey

2. I can't get up the nerve to wax my legs because I'm a wuss. I am not, and never will be a true badass

Both of these things are for the best. For me, and the world.