Tuesday, 26 June 2012

Mothra ate my baby.

Here's a question:
Why do moths fly toward light? They're nocturnal. If they wanted the light, why not just come out during the day? It would be easier to avoid them, that way. Those critters are nasty.

I mean, sure, they're incredible, but they're the spawn of Hades.
I'm sorry, but my ears are not made of your food, moths. They're made for making my face look less weird. Which is a real job.

And what's up with the moths that look like hummingbirds? They're awesome, sure, but they confuse the shit out of me.
Come on, are you a bird? Are you an insect? Are you some magical cross between the twain?
Neither. That's what you are. You're just confusing. I refuse to believe you're even a moth. Please stay away from where I live. I thank the beings above that you don't live in the same country as me.

I realise that this could constitute as moth 'hate-speech', but I really, really don't care.

If I can be super serious for a minute, I had a traumatising experience with a moth. That's why I hate them.

Here's what went down:

Back in, like, 1998, I was walking with mother and my dog, Mollie (an amazing Bearded Collie crossed with a Bouvier de Flandres, more on her later). We went to the playing field of the high school to let Mollie run free (which was probably illegal because of by-laws in Nepean, Ontario). I was standing under a flood-light (I'd most likely bought a book with me. On a walk. At night. I was fucking addicted to the Babysitter's Club books).
Then I suddenly contracted a really serious case of frivolous muscular convulsions. Because a moth had flown into my fucking ear.

I was thrashing about in the dewy grass, which had that creepy mist that you always see in horror movies, and my mum was just standing there laughing and my dog was going berserk trying to trip me up which was only making matters worse.

If you've never had a moth fly under your hair and basically into your ear, it sounds like a jet-fighter. Who sings opera. Badly. And louder. And more scarily.

Also, I can't say for sure, but I'm fairly sure it was this kind of monster:

But I could be wrong and it might just have been one of those little white cabbage ones.

I'm pretty sure it was the huge one.


Oh yeah. My friend just asked what moths did before man discovered fire? Were they content with the moon?

Yes. Yes they were. And they can go back to being fucking content with the moon.

Friday, 22 June 2012

Yeti vs. Not Yeti.

Geez, being a girl is tiring.
Seriously? Whoever thought girls were sexier for shaving their legs was an asshole. And all the other rituals we go through (to not get called Yetis) is totally lame. I'd rather be a Yeti, cuz then if I saw a human, I'd be all 'Ew, look how not hairy that thing is!'

And also, if I were a Yeti, I'd definitely have a pet marmot called Larry (or Larrina if it was a girl), and it would go around stealing people's razors so that all the people in a 5 mile radius would be just as hairy as me and then no one would tease me for being a Yeti and I wouldn't tease them for being shaved and gorgeous.

I'd live in a tree house and it would be awesome and huge, to accommodate all my Yeti needs. I'd have a huge walk-in shower/waterfall room full of amazing expensive shampoos, a humongous walk-in blow-dryer and all the anti-frizz products that I could wish for. Cuz living in the forest gives you major frizz. Expecially on the crown area of your head.

The only downside of being a Yeti? The shampoo bills. So yeah, in retrospect, it's cheaper being a shaven maven.

Thursday, 21 June 2012

I once melted a woman's face.

I went through a phase (that I may or may not have completely finished going through, but we'll just see about that...) where I made theatre masks. I got one job out of it, and was offered another by the same person (a friend of mine who is a drama teacher at primary/elementary schools).

So there I am, trying to make some masks on a male head and I realise that it's too big for a kid's face. So I decide to use a female one instead.
I figured that if I wanted the eye-holes on the masks to be symmetrical and everything, that I needed to spray it black. With black spray paint.

That's when the face melted.

Oh yeah, I should probably mention that the heads I'm talking about are made of polystyrene. Not flesh.

I used to want to be a bunch of different things.

When I was little (and my craziness was kind of cute), I was convinced that I was going to be an amazing combination of all my favourite things.
In all honesty? I still do.

But truthfully, I don't think that's going to happen. For one, I'm not really a suitable age to be an Olympic gymnast. Rhythmic or not. I'm 26 for fuck's sake, and most of them are, like, 13 and super skinny and have extra elbows and knees and necks.
Also, the fact that I trip over my own feet when I'm sitting down, is kind of a hindrance. Most gymnasts (even the rhythmic ones who bounce balls and twizzle ribbons and throw clubs at people) are very very coordinated and not at all clumsy. Apart from when it comes to their Russian coach's expectations. Then they're all left-feet and nothing is ever good enough. They should have discovered me when I was 11. Then I'd have won all the medals. Ever.

If I'd had my way when I was little, not only would I have been a world-class gymnast, but I would have lived in the Amazonian rain forest. I would obviously live in a hollowed out tree, and make a living making tortilla chips and cougar jerky. And I'd have had a pet panther named 'Blacky'. If I had had this dream when I was the age I am now, the panther would be called 'Gerald' or possibly 'Frank'. Only because I no longer name things after the thing that stands out most about them.
N.B. I had stick insects called 'Sticky' and 'Twiggy'. I also had a hamster called 'Squeaky'.I'm that kind of person. PS- I also had a cat whom I did not name, called 'Kitty'. I got this naming gig all wrapped-up for life.

Blacky and I would have many wonderful adventures. Mainly tending our maize crops for our booming tortilla business, and shooing away the monkeys that would doubtlessly want a part of our fortune. They should have learned to farm and make tortillas for themselves. At least our tortilla business doesn't have any competition. And as we all know, competition from monkeys is stiff.

When the tortilla business was no longer so lucrative much fun and I had to turn Blacky into a blanket because the rainy season had set in set Blacky free (he totally didn't want to leave, because I make the best monkey jerky (he wasn't a fan of the cougar jerky, I don't blame him; it kind of sucked.) and I made sure his coat was in great shape, like, all the time), I had to turn to making my way home to my mother. I hadn't told her I was going to live in the Amazon. But really? If she had been that bothered she would have come to look for me. I obviously had left a paper trail as long as my hair (I had totally long hair in my imagination because my mother would always cut it really short and I'd confuse myself and think I was looking at a boy in the mirror.) and it led straight to the Amazon.

When I got home, I was immediately told that I had a job as a vet. I gave that all up, though, because I didn't like rummaging around in dying animals organs looking for a lost set of car keys. I then wrote a book about said dilemmas and it made me my first gazillion simolians.

After a brief stint on Broadway in Cats I was asked to be the singing voice for every Disney lady character ever. True story. In my imagination.

Oh yeah, and I got myself a zoo and all the animals were free to roam freely, and I might as well have just bought part of the Serengeti for all it was worth, because the lions ate everything. Apart from the giraffes. Turns out, they're the real predators.

So maybe these things haven't happened. Yet.
But I'm looking for happiness and to be content with who I am, so as long as I can run away to my imagination, where I'm not fucked-up and jobless, I'm fine.

Bugs and Shit

I spend a lot of time in my back garden. And there are LOTS of bugs in it. I love it.

Obviously, I don't quite love the idea of having bugs in my hair or up my nose. Or in my rectum. But the fact that they're the most intense creatures on earth (apart from my envy of women my age who don't have grey roots and therefore don't have to dye their hair so that people don't think they're just super-young looking 60 year olds) means that I want to get to know what they do to, you know, get by.

I should add: I spend time in my garden a lot because I smoke and I don't smoke in the house, EVER. This is probably good because there are obviously goblins in the house who have a nicotine addiction too. And I don't want them to give in to this filthy habit. So I'm actually doing a good deed by not enabling their baser desires.

I've seen a lot of cool bugs in my garden. Like a stink bug. And spiders trying to get it on (no idea as to the success rates but pretty sure they get it on). I even filmed some foreplay. Spider foreplay, not human. I'm not a deviant. You're sick.
If I knew how to post videos on here, I would. But I don't, so there.

Here's a picture of one of the stink bugs I found. I named him Buzz. Because he was totally a Space Ranger, and not at all because he was damn noisy.

So, yeah. My garden rocks. And I find cool stuff there.