RCN 18186-H

I keep you close to my heart, always.

It's not the same without you, and it never will be. Words cannot describe how much I miss having you in my life, through the good times and the bad. You were always there for me, no matter what you had going on. You never criticised my tears, or called me names, or put me down.

Your humour was your way of showing how much I meant to you. And my retorts were my way of saying I wanted to grow up to be the person you became as my grandfather.

You never denied me the affection and love I didn't get from my father. You never denied me your attention when I needed it. You taught me about yourself, and about what goes on in my own head.

You loved me every day, didn't you? I know I love you, even though we're not together in the same lifetime. But one day, we'll meet again. And I'll run to your arms as fast as I can, and be the happiest little girl in the universe again.

You're still the centre of my world. And I can only hope that you're proud of anything I strive to do, and I know that when I'm down, you're holding my hand and whispering to me that I'll be okay. All I need is time.

I'll never forget you. I promise.

~Sam.

Existential Apathy

I get rattled by conversations involving politics. Not sure why.

Something about the gross...intellectual decomposition caused by politics bugs me. What's worse, is it's not even the politicians I can't stand anymore. It's the mouths of the voters that piss me off.

Think about it. You get your basic angry working-class Joe, who listens to the news making negative spin after negative spin on ye olde politician. And all this little Joe will do is bitch and moan over how terrible the world is growing to be. And after someone says "Why don't you do something about it?" they're met with the redundant response;

There's nothing I can do about it.

It sure as hell feels like there isn't, but I will admit that if someone out there is willing enough, and brass-balled enough to step in front of a mass media source and scream "This world is going to shit, and it's your fault because you're lazy," I'll be right behind them. Fuck, I'd do it myself if I knew where to start.

Maybe I should.

People need to suck up their inadequacies and start thinking about the world around them. Pull the stick out of your ass, and the gauze out of your ears, and listen to your surroundings. Listen to what other people think.

It's damn hard to do, I'm well aware. But it's not a matter of changing the world in a day. Never was. Just make little changes here and there, and watch as the little steps grow into big results. But before any of that can be done, the quintessential foundation needs to be laid;

Pay attention.

There's nothing you can do well with false or incomplete information. And this is the biggest problem being faced today. People will look no further than the information they want to hear, information that validates their opinion and makes them seem smart in the eyes of someone else, if only for that brief stint of a coffee-shop conversation.

Hypocrisy blooms constantly in this day and age. Promises made that will likely never be kept, ideas that are only half-founded and then promptly contradicted or reversed for fear of persecution, and ignorant fools sitting behind the television taking every word anyone says at face value. The metaphor is losing its flair in favour of literalist interpretations. Nobody wants to think for themselves anymore.

This is not the freedom the dead soldiers fought for. This is not the world the Renaissance scholars strived to create.

This is the world where the biota has become robotic. Pre-programmed opinions governed by corporate labels and anger/scare tactics, controlled by the minds everyone's mad at, but too afraid to push against. The human mind is a beautiful thing, and it's being fashioned into little more than it's own egocentric universe.

Sure, we still question everything. But does it count as questioning if it's never going to be heard?

Peace, Love, and MarioKart.
~Poindextra

My boyfriend is so mean to me.

So this morning after I decided to stalk my various e-mail inboxes and website what-have-yous, I returned myself to one of my favourite blogs to read when horrendously bored, Violent Acres. A few link-hops later and I stumble across her entry about fun adventures buying NyQuil, and then shortly after rediscovered her hysterical story of beating down a Super!Wal-Mart employee hierarchy with simple semantics. (The follow-up to that story is also hysterical.)

ANYWAY. That sets you up with the context for this next bit, and if you're too lazy to read, shut up I'm not feeding you the funnies.

I'm sitting in an Anthropology lecture reading these entries, and I look over to my boyfriend with this almost demonic gleam in my eye and ask, "Can we do this?"

Much to my chagrin, his only response is "If you do, I'm modifying a toaster." Fucker. (<3)

I hate toasters. And he's not allowed to use them. Why? Because he possesses them with his mind. NO MATTER HOW MUCH HE DENIES THIS, it's true. And there's a story for this too.

While he was in Germany, we had epically long conversations via Skype. Most of these conversations were truly random and (in the eyes of anyone with a 'normal' psychological process) inconsequential. Well, one fateful day, we somehow get onto the subject of his fascination with taking things apart and making them either better, different, or a threat to humankind. (He has the technology.......Run fast.) This conversation turned to him talking about modifying a toaster so that it had four settings: Light, Medium, Dark, and Kill. For some sick, twisted reason, I got hungry after this. So I brb'd and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich. GUESS WHICH APPLIANCE I ENDED UP USING.

I'm lifting the damn thing up to put it on the counter, and unbeknownst to me, the little cage inside that holds the toastee in place snags the pendant around my neck and yoinks me down. Also; scary as hell.

Sure enough, I waltz back into the bedroom where he's patiently awaiting my return, sandwich in hand, and scream at him for sending telepathic messages to my kitchen appliances.

He's not allowed in there unsupervised. As for my desire to stir shit up in a Wal-Mart, in my defense I'm not going to launch projectiles.

Peace, Love, and MarioKart.
~Poindextra

Diary of a Victorian Whore

I find myself sitting in a dark, dingy room in a dark, dingy house just beyond the Whitechapel district. The sun's setting, I'm waking up, and slowly coming to terms with the fact that my night job is about to begin.

The routine is simple; hoist myself up out of bed, and if not already dressed, find the nearest....relatively....clean garment at my disposal and begin using my crafty techniques to wiggle into my corset, tug on my boots, and appropriately style my ragged hair.

Afterwards, it's a short journey down the stairs, taking care not to wake the other girls in the house, especially not Mrs. Havisham, as she rather likes to sleep in, sometimes even missing hours of 'business' in order to recover what little beauty rest she can. I don't understand why she calls it that, the wretched old woman's nothing but worn leather. But I pay that no mind and do my best to be on my manners, as she does put a roof over my head and what one could call food on the table each day before I set myself abed again. But I digress.

Once outside in the street, it's a matter of simply finding the right man to entertain for the night. A girl must know within seconds of calling a man's attention what he wants, how willing she is to accomodate this, and how much she intends to get paid for it. That said and done, it's another five minute walk, arm in arm, to the dark and often dank and foul-smelling alleyway where the transaction is carried out.

My skirts are lifted, his trousers are dropped, and so begins the ritual of oh-so-dramatic moans of ecstasy as he heaves to and fro, caring not where his hands or face gets buried in the process. If you're lucky, he'll be done right quick and you've made yourself an easy few pounds. If not, as the old saying goes, just lie back and think of England.

When he's finally spent and fishes out the notes from his change purse, it's back to the dark, dingy house to clean up after yourself. After all, one can't take too much risk. A simple mixture of water, alum, and zinc sulphate, and a torn-up cloth on a stick takes care of all the unwanted seed.

Then, it's merely a matter of stripping down and sliding back between the grimy sheets for another day of sleep.

(fiction inspired by my strange obsession with Victorian prostitutes.)

Peace, Love, and MarioKart.
~Poindextra

Words of Wisdom?

Time and time again, I read the words of a very powerful and influential character in literature. And time and time again, I think of how amazing those words are. People quote them almost constantly; Quoting them with the confidence and stature of the character themselves. As if they were the ones who thought that brilliant idea.

Here's a thought. Come up with your own brilliant ideas. I know it's very difficult nowadays, what with all the really profound things seemingly already claimed by another's mouth, and the media feeding you what you're supposed to think.

It's not very hard to form your own opinion based on what's already there. In fact, that's the very thing many people would like to see in an individual; a solid viewpoint and an eloquent voice to back it. If there's something on your mind, say it. Even if you don't have the pure, 100% certainty of the opinion being valid, say it with the confidence like you do, and the rest of the ignorant fools in the world won't even bother calling your bluff.

More often than not, the thing that determines the success of your speaking is confidence. This is why dearest president George Herbert Walker Bush fails so miserably at looking like an intelligent human being. While he very well may be an intelligent human being, the way the man carries himself makes him look like a buffoon. And yes, many people are probably going to read this, scream 'SLANDER!' and be pissed at me to high heaven. But you know what?

I don't care.

I don't care because this is the internet; people say and advocate worse things than this, which is very sad because what I just said (and many people would gladly agree with me) is the honest to goodness truth. Any self-respecting drama student would say the same thing. And I'd be right there with them, because as the familiar phrase goes, "The whole world is a stage."

It's a shame so many of us can't act.

Peace, Love, and MarioKart
~Poindextra

I'm baaack~ With power.

Hello, nettertubes. Long time no post. Not that you missed me.

And no, that wasn't me angsting. I was telling the truth.

But barring that, I must say that I return to you with happy news. My name change has been finalised, and I'm now running through the massive barage of paperwork to change EVERY document I've had up until now, so that it reflects what I feel is the truest form of myself; my name.

For those of you who even care, there is a reason behind my decision, and a method to my madness. For the longest time, since I was a child, I had hated my last name. It looked ugly, its colours were off, and people never pronounced it right. Oh, and I kept getting the lovely question "Is it French?" For the record, no. It wasn't. Shut up.

I won't get into the exact reason that finally pinned me into getting this done. I will say, however, that I feel damn liberated. Took me months to do, but in the end, that $137 cheque gave me something I don't think any sum of money could ever do again; spiritual independence.

And it's not like I'm denouncing my family by changing my name. Not at all. I kept my family informed and active during the entire process, albeit that I still wound up with some not-so-positive enthusiasm* after the fact. I'm merely seizing my own path in life, and doing it in progressive steps. The first one being to rid myself of one of the things I was tormented for as a child.

I'd finally decided in September, after starting University, that I'd wanted to change my name. I didn't know what to, and I didn't care how long it took, I just wanted it gone. So I enlisted the help of my friends, and a short while later I was met on MSN with a link that walked me through the process. Bookmark in browser, I then went to friends and family with the notion, asking for suggestions on a new name. For a short time I'd considered changing my middle name as well, because every girl and her sister has the same middle name (Especially if you're Canadian.)

The notion didn't last long, simply because the middle name was never the problem.

One day, my grandmother and I were discussing over laundry the various Irish names I could bestow upon myself. Why Irish? Because my grandmother, one of the precious few people in this world I will always respect, is a leprechaun. And I love her dearly. After much deliberation, we both came to the conclusion that I'd have just as much fun trying to get those names spelled right as I had with the then-current surname. So a new route was taken.

I then considered the geography of things. Dungannon, while being the little town that my grandmother grew up in, just didn't fit right with my first name. Neither did Omagh, one of the nearby towns where family friends reside. So we went metropolitan.

Belfast. Capital of Northern Ireland. Short, Irish, easy to spell, and to-the-point.

Then it was the lovely task of acquiring information for the paperwork, which was surprisingly easy to do, considering I didn't need anyone's permission to do so, I have no criminal record, and no shady financial history (yet. Fuck you, student loans and horribly overpriced tuition). Being the lazy ass that I was, it took me a good while to get off my ass and find a guarantor to prove that I'd lived here for the past year. Then it took me three months more to work up the nerve to walk into Town Hall and talk to the Commissioner of Oath and sign the papers.

Couple weeks later, I mail the application.

Couple months later, I get a letter back saying I needed a new guarantor 'cause Dad's** statement wasn't quite up to snuff. So I toddled on into my old high school and politely asked the principal to sign for me, and she did, bless her heart. <3

June 30, 2008, as my boyfriend and I are chilling in my room, my grandmother walks in and tells me I got a letter from the Registrar General. I flew into the kitchen, grabbed a knife from the drawer and tore the damn thing open so fast I thought I'd slice my hand.

Less than a minute later, I was in tears. In my hands was the change of name certificate I'd stewed over for months. I was free.

Two days later my new birth certificate arrived care of Purolator courier.

And now I'm getting it all updated. And loving every minute.

*My mother was apparently less than thrilled that I was changing my name, and since the idea's conception, when I'd originally told her, thought that I was kidding. Much confusion on my part, as well as Gran's.

**He's not my real dad, but damn if I don't love him as if he were. He's been there for me so many times, and I'm so grateful for it all.

Peace, Love, and MarioKart,
~Poindextra