Blue Bunnyhug

I was on the bus today when a creepy eerie thing happened. I guess I have been reflecting lately on turning twenty-seven in less than a week and what I’ve learned since I was seventeen. How I got more accepting and compassionate for those around me, and also just thinking of all the shit I’ve been through to get to where I am today. All those years with the wrong diagnoses, all the bad marks on my transcript from when I would go crazy. Anyway, I was wondering if I really am so mature, or if I’m still seventeen.

Then I got on the bus with my friend and these teenage girls who were Paris Hilton wannabes were tittering and making me feel awkward. And sitting next to me was a girl their age, probably from the same school, who looked like the girl from Welcome to the Dollhouse. I hope they didn’t make her feel weird. I remember being at the mercy of mean girly girls.

Paris Hilton scares me. And Britney Spears. I’ve seen whole hordes of Britney Spearses, hey, how do you say Britney Spears plural? Britney Speari? Anyway, hordes, like a biblical plague of locusts, descending on everyone, sprinkling perfume samples amidst the holy rollers that picket in front of the Virgin Megastore. You Will Burn in Hell! But on the way, be sure to purchase our new scent “Capitalist Beauty Queen.”

Really though, I love femmes. There is only one thing I would like to change about dating femmes; buying clothes. There is something about it, I dunno, it’s a bit like taking your medicine. You know it’s a good idea, femmes have a flair for picking out things that make you look good, especially if they groove on butch vibe. However this could go wrong if you’re shopping with a femme who secretly wants to make you over into a girly girl for a night. But ooooh, it takes so freaking long to pick something. I go out shopping, I’m like “Blue bunnyhug.” And I hunt through all the stores on Granville street and usually it’s at the Bay and I pay my money and I have my blue bunnyhug for the year. Or I buy jeans. That’s pretty much it for clothes shopping, that’s all I want to do. And I wear my blue bunnyhugs pretty much all day year round, so that’s it for fashion.

It’s because I am a bachelor. A blue bunnyhug wearing bachelor.

For those of you not in the know, bunnyhug is Saskatchewan for a hoodie.

Clean and Beautiful

I am going to a reception full of funders tonight. I’m taking my friend with me. I said we needed to dress up. She asked how.
“You know, clean and beautiful.”
I have to write my paper and the mess in here had totally become thouroughly disgusting, especially with the mouse getting bold. I had to set some boundaries. And there were some flies getting interested, oh it was awful. So I hauled out all the garbage. A mouse had been living in my garbage. Now it’s still a disaster zone, but cluttered more than anything. And I have a lot more energy. I think I was seriously depressed and I didn’t even know it. I mean, I must have been to sleep so much and not clean as well. I forgot how good it feels to clean. So much more room! And now that mouse will go away.
My name used to be Mouse.
I’ve just always loved rodents.
But I hate maggots. And I thank heavens that I didn’t see any on my cleaning spree.
Oooh, but there’s still the fridge.
I’m just glad I’m not a public hazard site anymore. I like my rat, but I got him at a pet store.
Clive’s gettin old, he doesn’t use his back legs as well. I hope he doesn’t pull a Pope and die a long drawn out death. He’s so old. I’m going to have to make a decision sometime this summer I fear.
I got some more clean and beautiful preparations to make.

I have a secret. . . .

I have a dirty fantasy in my head set to “School’s Out for Summer” by Alice Cooper. It’s the sexiest idea I’ve had in ages. It’s as dirty as my dishes, and believe me, that’s as dirty as it gets.

Burning Down the House

Maybe I’m playing psychiatrist, but I’ve recently noted a bizarre fixation/fear with the idea of all my possessions going up in smoke, burning our lovely building. I’ve often wondered if this obsession is some OCD symptoms coming up that hasn’t been previously diagnosed.

So you can imagine it was a shock for me to come home to four fire trucks pulling into the front of my building, along with a stray City TV news van, two ambulances, and one police car. I was so sure it had happened, my apartment was a flaming wreck, goodbye computer, goodbye clothes, goodbye mice, goodbye Clive. Roasted alive so sad. And then I see my friend from down the hall. Turns out it was some guy burning things on his stove, and firemen kept going in and out of the building because he wouldn’t let them in.

Crisis averted.

But what a mean trick for the universe to play on anxiety-ridden me.

Dissed-ability

Having a psychiatric disability is a little confusing at times. I got accommodations at school for my sudden decent into craziness brought on by some stress, but it has made me feel all weird. I’m really glad I got it, I don’t think I would be able to graduate if I hadn’t. But I was so scared to ask for it, so humiliated by the fact that my illness has once again inturrupted my life.

But as I think about it, what am I so ashamed of? Is it being bipolar? Not being able to be grand master student? I think sometimes people with disabilities (and not necessarily psychiatric ones) are made to feel guilty about the things we need to get through the world.

I will not feel guilty for being crazy. Whew.

Graduation is coming up fast, May 7 I will be walking up onto a stage in front of thousands of eciad students and family/friends that I don’t know. And mum will be there. And I’ll get to grab my degree and hang out with mom and I want to drag her off to see The Interpreter with Nicole Kidman. Mmmm, Nicole Kidman, I wish she still had red hair. Her Moulin Rouge hair was the best.

I still can’t quite believe that I’m finishing my bachelor’s degree finally! Maybe I’ll get to stop being a bachelor soon. Although I’ve grown tragically accustomed to the bachelor lifestyle.

Scary Models

Ever since watching America’s Next Top Model’s, models have scared me. Especially that one with the dark hair, eeee, she’s like a villian out of a Jacqueline Susann novel. And when Tyra Banks flipped out the other night, I mean holy shit. So dramatic!

And then living your life as a model, ugh, I always think of the movie Gia. Poor queer model.

It’s kind of sad that all my knowledge of the modeling industry is mediated, I don’t have any first hand knowledge. And anyway, there’s not a huge demand for fat butch models. Unless there’s a niche market. I guess there probably is, but I doubt I could make any kind of a living at it.

America’s Next Fat Butch: Thirteen chubby butches compete for the chance to star as a mechanic in a lesbian porn calendar.

It would be so lovely. I should enlist my other fat butch friends and make a porn calendar.

Ahhh, bipolar!

Some days I really hate being crazy. Today is a perfect case in point. I felt too hugely fucked up to go to school, even though I had a presentation due. Too much of a mess. My paper is still not done and I’m still tired. Last night I got so wired up, my hands were shaking, it was a terrible sight. I don’t really have that much work to do on my paper. But my anxiety went through the roof. I’ve never been so freaked out.

That’s a lie, I’ve been freaked out way worse than that. I love conspiracy theories, but when you think you’re living in one, it totally sucks.

Anyway, this leads me to the debate around how to explain to my professor that my bipolar disorder is acting up and could she please give me an extension and another day to present? I mean, bipolar is such a weird illness to have. In the first place, it’s all in your brain, and no one looks at your brain on a daily basis unless you are in some kind of medical testing facility. In the second place, it makes really simple daily things seem insurmountable at times. And it’s really hard to communicate to people why those things get so difficult.

Plus living with it is like being super sensitive, emotions get cranked up, depressions are like being buried alive, mania’s like riding shooting stars. And somewhere in between is this place called normal. How do we ever attain the goal of normality?

Reasons to be paranoid

This is just getting really sad.

Cramps

I have cramps. I don’t know why they are here. It’s not even the first day of my period anymore and I am crampy, and it makes me crabby.

It seems the aliens were interested in the Pope’s funeral, they did a little fly by. One of my friends thinks it’s a good thing, a little inter-galactic gesture of goodwill.

So I finally heard back about my grad application. I didn’t get in. Which is good and bad. On one hand it gives me the chance to work on some more projects and not be in school trying to do them, including the big feature I am still plugging away on. On the other hand now my future financial situation is a little bleak, much like my puberty. However trying to live on the meager funds my reserve gives me for going to school has been totally taxing on me, I can’t remember being so poor. So maybe being out of school will make things a little easier.

I still have to write a paper and then I’m pretty much done.

Now I just have to find a job. Sigh, I really hope someplace decent is hiring, like Chapters. I could work in a bookstore. That would be nice.

Just please, no more call centres!

Near Death Experiences

I have never had a near death experience, although I have had the wind knocked out of me. I’m doing some homework and listening to my favorite radio program, Coast to Coast AM. It’s not on the air in Montreal, one of the reasons I didn’t like living there. It’s a super crazy program, sometimes they talk about earthquakes, sometimes ghosts, sometimes aliens, remote viewing, all kinds of things that I like.

Tonight the topic is near death experiences.

I hope there’s something after we all die. It seems like such a shame for someone to gather so much life experience and then just die and have all that disappear with them. Plus I don’t like the idea of never getting to see someone again.

I hope there is an after life for rats. If there is, I know Nikolas is there, waiting for me.

Nikolas was the best rat in the entire world. He was my best friend for the majority of my art school experience. I got him when he was just a little baby, a fussy triangle face and climbing all over me danging off my glasses. He liked to steal my food, once he got away with an entire pie. He would also dance on my feet until I picked him up and carried him around. He hated granny smith apples, once I gave him a whole bunch and he just flung them out of his bowl, all stubborn. He was also the victim of two unfortunate meetings with candle flames, totally singeing his whiskers.

One he tried to eat my thai food, but it was too spicy and he started licking the carpet trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

He also gave dirty looks to my lover any time we had sex in front of him.

I hope to see him again, I know he’ll be dancing at my feet, asking if I brought him a pie. His death devastated me. He was pretty special, no other rat has charmed me so completely. I used to sing Hey Nicky you’re so fine to him.