Hallowe'en Styles.

Very, very scary. Unfortunately this was wasted on Wal Mart.

Oster Folds Five.

I've decided that the United States of America's fast food belt is considerably better than what Canada owns. Fucking Friendly's and their Reese Sundaes. Dear God. Tantalizingly, ice creamery, magic. Mmmmmmm.

Drving in the US isn't half as hard and/or scary as it seems. As long as you take the time to Map Quest everything and try not to hit the deer that are grazing dangerously close to the highways, you're in good shape. The only thing that made me nervous about being in the car was the driver (One of which, was my sister). A sister who had been previously driving that day for, four hours straight and was literally, in the midst of falling asleep at the wheel.
I'll never forget the directions to SUNY Brockport. The map took us straight through a middle of nowhere hick town with glorious, white washed churches and massive Victorian Houses. I wanted to live there. I kept thinking as we were cruising down the road, "Jesus, when is the urban sprawl going to hit?" And then BAM like a giant box falling from the sky, a Wal*Mart stood infront of the car. The university was right around the corner.

The university seemed more like an elementary school with it's bright bulletin boards and it's mediocre and cracking buildings. It was too surreal. Seeing Ben Folds in a fucking university gym is like seeing an orchestra play in a garage. It was fucked.
There was crazy tight security to get in. A pat down, a metal detector, a bag search, it was all there. I bought a black soccer sweater with a giant, gold FOLDS on the left breast. It is hot. I also brought the Fray ep, which was an exceptionally good opening band. Who woulda thunk it?
Ben opened with Bastard, that was obviously expected. He played the majority of the songs he played in Toronto, but a lot more. He even included Careless Whisper, which was fucking awesome. God only knows how he hits those notes. He played for two and a half hours. Two and a half hours of being less than fifty feet from Ben Folds while listening and watching him play.

*Orgasm*

The concert in Brockport was much better than Toronto. It was just a little less underwhelming because I had seen it all before. BUT STILL, that doesn't mean that it was any less of an impact on my dull existence.

I love Ben because he's everything he does is so genuinely simple and honest. Or at least it seems that way. His lyrics, if you care enough to listen, just want to make you break. I wish I could find the ways to express myself like that.

Fuck, I love Ben.

Maraschino Cherries.

I've got a huge fucking pink cake downstairs. It's massive. Literally, the size of my head. Maybe bigger. It's adorned with cherries and twenty-three partially used polka-dotted candles. A whopping eleven cups of icing sugar has been used to ice this beast of a pastry. ELEVEN. My teeth are currently rotting out of my head at an incredibly speedy capacity.
Mir found some crazy recipe for this mother somewhere in her shelves of cookbooks. It took her an hour to frost the inside layers of the cake and another hour to frost the outside. If you look closely upon cutting through the brick, you can actually see slight variations of the actual white, vanilla cake. Mostly, you see baby pink frosting, oozing out of every bit of this 18" wheel of infinite delicacy. It's sorta gross.

My birthday was celebrated on the twenty-eigth because of alternating plans amoungst the people who "count" in my existence. I didn't particularly mind, it gave me something to look forward to on an otherwise dull weekend away from work.
Andrew came down for the festivities, so did Stinky. My father, who is tremendously ill rolled out of bed, (probably more for the Cracker Barrell, than for my birthday) and Mir obviously, made me a massive sugar roll. It was nice.
Andrew exceeded my expectations upon telling me that he was going to pay for my tattoo as a birthday present. I was insanely overwhelmed because Andrew, from what I understood, never wanted me to have one. I was very giddy and excited. I then went into super overdrive, planning the placement and colours of my MUCHA mermaid. Stinky wrapped up a homemade card adorned by many Ben Folds pictures. She gave me the tickets for the concert, and included a note saying that my Ben Folds Fan Club Membership package was in the mail. That was a super rad birthday present. My Dad and Mir got me this crazy yellow princess phone and a whole bunch of gas cards to use for travelling purposes. I don't know why my father always insists on paying for things that can go towards the usage of our vehicles. It's kinda weird.

The birthday celebrations weren't bad in the slightest. I'm annoyed that I let the actual numerical day of my birth dictate my happiness. If it wasn't for all the cherries stuck in my cake, it would have been the best day ever.

Happy Birthday.

I'm twenty-three fucking years old and I'm sure half the people I've met in my life don't even know it.

I spent my birthday mopping floors and explaining to my fellow associates why I didn't bring them cupcakes on my birthday. They were excessively saddened by my lack of baked goodies for their bellies, and really, why wouldn't they be? The birthday girl always cooks for her guests!

Birthday's are shit. They've unfortunately become like every other mediocre occassion on the christian calanender and have assumed their position amoungst the other notorious Hallmark Holidays. Boo.
I don't like this, "as I get older I realise" scenario. It makes me feel funny and odd and completely out of sorts with my bubbling personality and fading youth. I have a wrinkle under my left eye. What I would give to be twenty.
But now, instead of opening gifts and being with family, birthday's are reduced to sitting on a blog and typing about the people you miss. Fate has granted me many mistakes, God has given me a big mouth - I own the stubborness and pride which ends many friendships. It seems that I'm rather good at making people fuck off.

I'm not particularly bothered or saddened by their departure because I can't note any sort of difference in my happiness or unhappiness, which makes me believe that their presence wasn't of any importance to my health or personality.
But of course, like everything, we all miss the things that we considered dear and near and I do from time to time wonder about the friends that I've left along the way.

I guess I should go back to mopping.

Screaming Infidelities.

That was the first song that was playing when I got back into the car. How ironic is that? Fucking radio, always making the obvious so much more than it needs to be.

I keep telling myself that everything I do has a purpose. That it needed to happen because it was supposed to, and I should never regret my feelings because they're in me to feel. I don't regret much in my life.

Things seem to become more and more surreal as the time ticks by. I can't remember being in that car, but I know I was in it. And as more time passes and as more words burry what was shared and experienced, the more unbelievable and dream-like that moment becomes. I w

on't and can't give myself up. I don't like to be cracked and it's so rare that someone is capable, or even allowed to venture close enough to break my shell.

Everything seems different now. He's seen me so vulnerable, on the brink of tears. He was soft and gentle, not harsh and rude. He talked about things that mattered and not the things that pertained to the environment. He was, what I wanted to see, what I always thought he was and like a flash of light, he was gone again. Those hours spent in the Tercel were mere seconds of a sleepy haze.

He appeared again tonight, but was only a fragment of what I saw. He was cold and ridgid, uninterested and distant. He just kept walking away.

I guess now I remember what it's like to feel forgotten. The object that's kept in a box for safe keeping - the temptation that's only allowed out when a window of rushed time presents itself. I feel so silly now, so annoyed and so very tired. How are you supposed to cope with being an accessory to good timing? How do I start to understand the complexity of a situation that never needed to exist and in many ways, doesn't. I feel like a toy.

It's not his fault. I fall in love with moments, people and ideas too easily. I create the illusion of strength and distance. I'm very good at making myself and everyone else believe that I'm in control. I'm just a kid and I just want someone to make me feel right. I dont hate him or despise him, I don't know what I feel for him. Feelings for him are obselete.

The only thing I feel now is hurt. Ignoring events because of circumstance breaks more hearts than blunt words. Pretending that you don't care, and being good at it breaks my soul and I'm very stupid for putting myself in this position. A position where I seem so easily ignored.

It fucking stings.

I didn't do anything wrong. I just got close to someone I obviously shouldn't have. Why am I so, so stupid.

Howe Silly.

Andrew and I went on a hayride on Friday night. It led us to a barnyard of bad dreams. It was very scary. Ah ah ah ah... one. I clung to him like a little child when a twenty-five-year-old bum came flying at me out of the corn with a chainsaw. Some might say that I was being silly, I say, see what you do when someone comes at you with a chainsaw.
Andrew really didn't want to go, but he eventually relented after I begged. That was nice of him, I guess. In turn, he gave me his really, bad, awful cold and now my nose is all stubbed up and my throat is burning like hot. Haaaowt.

I left work early last night because of the lack of work and my new found cold. Mike and I devised a plan of escape through lying about "car troubles" at lunch. We sneakily, while hypothetically waiting for a towtruck, went home and slept. Aren't we clever? No, not really.

Anyway, that all brought me to today: Russ and Stacey's wedding. It was simple, but elegant. It wasn't overly warm like Andrew's cousin's, but it meant so much more to see my big brother Russ get hitched. I cried for him. That was strange.
He of course, couldn't get through the songs, which made his bride cry, which made everyone cry, which really just made the wedding what weddings are: reasons for women to cry. It was still nice though.
Randomly enough, Bradford Howe from, oh my god, Much Music attended, as he is close friends to Russell. I didn't talk to him much, but my sister seemed to think that he liked me best. And of course, she said that revelation in a very, "why the fuck does he like you more than me," way.
It's a little weird, people usually don't like me more than stinky. I guess being a wallflower pays off from time to time.

I wish I could find it in me to write a proper post for this day, but my leaking nose has overtaken my soul and mind and it just cannot be forced.

Half Finished.

Yesterday afternoon I started a painting for the wedding of my friend's Russ and Stacey. I finished it this morning at eight am. I've never finished a painting that quickly before and am annoyed that I did, mostly because it's complete shit. Well, the right side of it, is complete shit.

Painting, unlike scoring glass, is a very relaxing and rewarding hobby. I can see why water colour courses are such a popular interest amoungst the masses, even if it's - ewe, watercolour. I'm not very good at painting, but I'm not very good at art either. Well. I may be, but if I am, it's of no understanding of my own. Da Vinci said that, "patience is divinity" and if that is true, than I am in the art sense, already a genius. Everything else however, not so much.

People ask me how I could have gone to school for Graphic Design and not consider myself an artist. The answer is basic and simple: I don't believe in art. The word art in itself is abstracted. It mingles vaguely on the same echelons as love and hate; words with no definitions, but own unexplainable meanings.
I think art is a measure of one's ability. And one's ability cannot be measured by one's self, it must be measured by people in the know. Being a man confined to a basement, writing poems that reflect the sweet and tender motions of butterflies floating on the cosmic winds of the universe does not constitute anything more than a fool. Being a man that chooses to educate and understand the importance of words, in my opinion, is more of a poet than anyone who writes sentimental drivel to unobtainable romances.

The problem with art seems to be that everyone is an artist. It seems like such a pretentious and ridiculous word now because honestly, there really isn't any such thing left. Art got bad when it somehow got mixed with illustration. Soon after, it became graphic design and then, became a source of income for mediocre fools with bad design fundamentals with the talent of my left toe.
I say, give me a reason to paint and I will paint. Creation, or art needs more of a purpose other than our own sefish desires to exist. Art should be a reflection of a time, a historical record, a photograph when there were no cameras or a story to be told to generations after. Art now, is nothing more than abstracted bullshit, thrown onto a canvas by some twat adorned in black with a superiority complex.
But I suppose I'm wrong. If art is a reflection of a time, then we have ultimately lived up to it's purpose by being selfish and egocentric fools. It seems that North American culture has consumed everything.

I doubt I'll give the painting as a present. Even though the colour choice is stunning, the execution is poor. I decided a long time ago that I will never consume myself by an activity that I am only mediocre at.

I'm either a genius, or I'm nothing.

The Last Word.

Today was a day that I wish I could pluck from my memory and leave on the side of the road with the rest of the garbage. I'm completely boggled by the things that leave imprints on my emotional stability; I'm completely annoyed that I cry about them.

I've had a breakdown and I can't tell if it's from nerves, or from everyone else. Things bother me too easily and I can't tell if it's because I'm an idealistic sucker or because they honestly should bother me.
Hearing things like, "Who would want to marry you anyway?" coming from Mike destroyed me. Oddly enough, not at the time, but two days later while missing my boyfriend tremendously. I think the reaction was heightened more by Josh telling me that Andrew obviously feared committment and that he should be "keeping me" in Toronto.

What the fuck is that?

Because of this, work last night was crap. My head works too fast and my thoughts get tangled up with lies and ill words. I hate when people blurt out stereotypical relationship agendas and expect my eyes to light up with some sort of epiphany towards how bad my coupling is. I'm smart enough to realise that there are a lot of things about me and my life that I am not happy with, but my relationship with Andrew is not one of them. It is the best thing in my life and anyone who tries to taint that can fuck right off and die.
Of course, that epiphany only came after an hours worth of tears and another hours worth of phone calls to Andrew. Silliness.

I've encountered an odd blast from the past while befriending a girl named Rachel. Her ex boyfriend is also, my exboyfriend and his diary has caused a world of fun.
I can easily understand why Ian would hate me now. I was a good girlfriend to him in our relationship. I wasn't extraordinary or awful, just good. I tried to have patience with him, tried to be understanding of his character, but it eventually grew to be too much. While I was dating Ian, I did believe that there was something there, but hindsight is a bitch and unfortunately, my hindsight now is more of a bitch to Ian that it ever will be to me.
Ian fucking Ball is quite possibly the biggest fart knocker on the face of the planet. I blame the six, very long and frustrating months that I spent with him on my massive fit of lonliness after college and the need to have a good length of cock to chew on.
I never loved Ian and I never will love anyone like him. He's selfish and cruel, immobile and stupid, mediocre and unloving. He's blind to the people that help and love him most while he keeps a court of idiots that he consistently lies to and baffles with his, "over-the-top-highschool-tales of teenage fun."
I recently had a run in with his "live journal" which is horrendously written and boring to boot.

GOOD LUCK WITH THAT JOURNALISM JOB, YA GOD DAMN JACKASS.

Anyway, he casually slipped in a rude comment about my failed trip to England. Why the fuck is Ian Ball commenting on my life? Why the fuck is Ian Ball reading my Blog? And better yet, why the fuck does Ian Ball continue to keep a ghost of my existence in his life through my internet journal? Fucking loser.
I only stumbled upon his mess of words through the befriending of his ex girlfriend who had mentioned that she was completely humoured by his attempt to explain his mixed feelings towards the end of their relationship. I only really half read it. It annoys me to tears when people are pompously arrogant and find it somewhere in themselves, the belief that they are right to be that content with their mistakes.

Idiot.

Rae was too good to Ian, he never deserved her. He did deserve me though.

His response to my comment made me howel. Trying to level our two existences is like trying to bring heaven to earth. Ian is a (I think now), twenty-four-year-old living in his mother's sun porch, constantly surrounded by Matrix and Star Wars dolls. While he isn't working his part-time job at the Movie Gallery, he's sitting on his ass, eating greasy pizza and playing video games. He writes about the progress of his video games on his Live Journal. This is an excessive measure of how trivial he is.
All of his friend's have moved away to persue their dreams. Ian has no dreams, in fact, the ones he has now are the ones I gave him, because he's a lazy mother fucker with no ambition. The only real person he has contact with is the fellow who lives with him and the only reason he lives with him, is because it's cheaper rent than his grandmothers.
When things get really bad with Ian, he dips into a massive downward spiral of self loathing and suicidal tendancies and usually calls his abusive father to send him a plane ticket to the part of Europe he's currently residing in. Oh? What's that Ian? You're going to France? Guess we know how low you can go right now eh?

I did however casually slip a comment in about fucking his ex girlfriend which obviously left him a little disgruntled. Anyone who claims to be a, "good writer" but can't manage to come up with a better insult than calling me and his ex fat, is a joke. And while I may be living with my father, I am in the smart way, by saving up a fortune for my higher education and biding my time while I accumulate my dreams and desires. I may not be fortunate enough to have a rich father who can afford to send me galavanting around the world, but I am fortunate enough to own a rich sense of self security, responsibility and worth. Fuck Europe, at least I won't be living with my mother when I'm thirty-two.

I almost didn't write this post out of fear of proving Ian's point. Unfortunately for Ian, I know that I will always have the last word. Ian has and always will be obsessed with his past and I know, he will absolutely crave to know my summary of his comments.

I didn't cry over Ian. I don't give a toss about Ian and his shitty existence. I cried because I'm tired of being mixed up with people who are plainly awful and stupid. Life isn't a difficult thing to live, you just have to have the sense in you to make smart decisions for yourself.

I Am The Goddess of the Sea.

Greek and Roman mythology is awesome. Boo to the Christians for fucking everything up and leaving us with one God, who is plain and humble and not at all interesting in any sense.
I mean seriously, the Catholic Church wonders why no one takes an interest in religion anymore and the answer is quite simple and obvious: There's no fucking dirt.

Jesus was perfect. He didn't have a wife that he left for sea nymphs with blue hair. He didn't rape women, or turn lovers into crazy-scary monsters with six heads and twelve feet. There wasn't a women with snakes for hair, or half horse, half man creatures walking around. There were no winged cherubs, boats into hell or three crazy old ladies who decided the fates by strings.

SERIOUSLY, HOW COOL IS THAT?

Instead, Jesus walked around with a bunch of boring men who wrote silly things like, "Jesus wept," and now expect us to follow him whole heartidly. Fuck that noise, I want Zeus to come down with his lightening bolts and take some mother-fucking vengence out on some bad people's asses.

Damn. I wish I was Roman.

Anyway, I've decided to be Amphitrite for Hallowe'en. I gotta get me some lobster claws.

Bruises.

Mike said quite some time ago that my relationship with Josh was going to end just like my relationship with Peter.

He was right.

I felt like a bit of a cock after leaving him a rude email, commenting on my massive disliking of his behaviour the previous evening, but now I feel completely justified and satisfied with my decision. Josh acted like an asshole, he deserves my wrath. Fucker.

I didn't say much to him at the beginning of the night because I just didn't want to. After first break, realising that he was insanely moody and quiet, I felt a little bad. After lunch, I felt worse.
I mentioned to Mike that I seemed to be a sucker - always giving people the second chances that I probably shouldn't. He said that I was, infact a sucker and I needed to choose my friends more carefully. I don't think I agree with him to that extent, but I sympathize with his wisdom. I after all, would have said the exact same thing.
I finally decided to try to talk to him, but he was just simply rude. He didn't speak, he just moped. And the times that he did speak were quick and dripping with sarcastic undertones. It was difficult to keep a smile.

"Why are you so moody?"
"No sleep."
"That's not my fault."
"It could be."
"It's not... Do you hate me?"
*grumble*
"Alright."

I walked away, trying to seem like his craptacular aditude didn't phase me.

Soon after I was speaking to Derek about our Birthday Breakfast plans and casually asked Josh if he was going to come.

"Are you going to come?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Don't want to."
"Why?"
"Well... I dunno... It's just... sort of..."
"Just say it."
"I don't know."
"Do you want me to just fuck off?"
"I don't care."
"That's a good enough answer for me."

And I walked away.

I almost cried when he told me that he wasn't going to come. I want him to come. I even said I would pay for his food. But now I realise it's just not worth it. It hurts my feelings that he doesn't want to be present for my birthday. I probably wouldn't be as hurt if I could understand why he didn't want to go, but because he literally has no answer for almost every single one of his reasons, I just feel empty.

I showed him the bruise that he gave me later on. He told me I deserved it and that was when I realised the line had finally been drawn.

Hot Chocolate Addictions.

People are dicks.

Last Wednesday at work, Josh decided in all of his stupifying glory to push my buttons to the point of where I actually had to tell him to stop. Of course he didn't, and of course this pissed me off more. He eventually fucked off and left me to pick up skids by myself. I pulled a muscle in my arm - It hurts.
But I sent him a rude email saying that I've had enough of whatever friendship we have and I'm done doing whatever it is that we're doing. That was stupid. Josh is a dick, but I fully accepted this fact when I decided I wanted to be his friend. Unfortunately, I have never been able to distinguish when exactly you're allowed to pull out when your friends act like complete vaginas.

And of course, the obligatory selfish-sister routine has bubbled up again in the midst of my birthday.
Stinky has decided that she just has to have laser eye surgery because the absolute humility of her wearing glasses is just too much for her to bare any further. She of course, booked the appointment on my birthday and absolutely needs me to drive her to and from the surgery.

The bitch.

So of course, this limits my availability on my actual birthday, and therefore I cannot see my mother the weekend of my birthday, because of my sister's ridiculous nature.
Of course, this isn't so bad for me. Seeing my mother on my birthday isn't exactly what I've been wishing and praying for all year round, but telling my mother that I cannot see her on my birthday is a potential cause for a very frustrating phone call.

The bitch.

And of course, Cheslea has decided to take me to see Ben Folds for my birthday (more of a present for her I think, than myself). This of course takes place after a weekend of binge drinking in Windsor and her laser eye surgery.
Diddums don't want to get in no car with her sister at night when she can't see fuck all. Especially when the concert is in Brockport NY and our medical coverage will cease to exist if we get into a car accident. So I told my mother to tell my sister today that I wasn't going to the concert. She's going to be pissed.

Oh well.

I've bought a can of hot chocolate to welcome the winter weather. It's not even remotely close to how cold it should be, but the cocoa makes it feel that way.
I have a big steamy mug perched on the desk beside me. And it doesn't consist of two scoops and a bunch of crappy little mallows either. It's four scoops and no mallows 'cause that shit is gross yo.

Stress Tests.

There were many events in my early-adult years that caused me much stress.

For example, a steady boyfriend who wouldn't publically acknowledge me as his girlfriend, or the multitudes of rumours that wiz'd around Centennial concerning my one-night-stands with Josh Voynovich, the first of course, ending my long term relationship with my pussy-of-a-boyfriend.

Stress now, comes in a crap load of different packages. Not having enough money to pay bills, the constant strain of attempting to figure out how in God's name I'm going to pay for college. How my father continues to spend thousands, upon thousands while his bankaccount sits at a steady overdraft of thirty-one dollars and thirteen cence (Not including the self service fees and the overdraft interest, of course).
But that's only the money. The people make it worse. Mother's and their perpeptual guit trips, friends who are either too judgemental, or completely void of any sense of friendship and of course, boyfriends who, by their massive lack of relationship experience, fall a tad short in the girlfriend's-do-not-want-ironing-boards-for-their-birthday department (no, he didn't actually get me an ironing board. He'd rather get me absolutely nothing. Andrew hates shopping).

I'm only twenty-two. Life isn't supposed to be this stressful yet.

Fuck.

Learning Experiences.

I forget so many things. Baths for instance, are not sess pools of your own ick, but rather warm blankets that fill every crevice of your body, leaving you fresh and smooth and surprisingly, much more clean than a shower. Shoes with five inch heels are not a pain, but more of an empowerment. Towering over men creates a feeling of success, even if your ankles are ready to buckle.
And at the same time, while I forget most of the things that I enjoyed once, I learn new things from my own stupid phobias and nerosis. Swimming is not an embarrassing exercise. Crying for an hour on the bathroom floor of the hotel room because you feel fat, is. Having someone who can afford to pay for such adventures shouldn't cause guilt. It should make you feel loved... And I do.

Climbing out of my Tercel in the middle of the Niagara Square parking lot, wearing knee high, lace up, leather bitch boots on a mild October afternoon makes for an interesting beginning to any story. I wish I was empty enough to say that it was the beginning of a hot and torrid affair with a foreign embassador from an exotic country, but it was really only the meeting place for the beginning of Andrew and I's adventure.
Arriving at the Hilton, I was very aware of the numerous sets of curious eyes set on my legs. I did feel like a whore, and that caused a strange sort of excitement in me. Pretending to be something you're not, even in the smallest of ways makes for excellent sex. Every woman should have a pair of black laceups. Even if your boyfriend doesn't appreciate them, you'll appreciate how your legs look in them, especially when they rest on his back in the middle of a romp.

Randomly we went to Hooters for dinner. I can't say that the food was extra special, or even the waitresses with their voluptuous assets popping out over the table. I used to think that going to a restaurant that profited on the explotation of hot women with my boyfriend would make me a jealous pyscho. Realising that your boyfriend is more interested in the beer and the food, is very comforting.
I did get a hoodie out of dinner though. I enjoy that there's a little baseball logo on the left side of the chest. It makes me feel like I'm part of the team. Go Boobs.

Oddly enough, I have never been to an IMAX theatre before. I had no idea that they were "Canadian Technology" and often wondered why they were so grand compared to regular movie threatres. I'm sure having a screen that is six stories high, along with forty-four speakers blaring random noises at you through the film is impressive to some, but I'd much rather spend the money on a film that isn't about an old hag looking for death wishes. It was interesting in itself though.
I do realise now that if Andrew and I do have children, they will be tormented with educational vacations and many hours of the Discovery Channel with their father.

I still have yet to figure out why I'm so upset with the shape of my body. I'm not awful, but I'm not even average either. I obviously know that there are bits of my body that any man would drool over, but at the same time, wish that I didn't have them, for those reasons.
I probably shouldn't have felt so ill-at-ease with the prospect of going swimming and I'm sure I wouldn't have been so uncomfortable with the idea if there hadn't been a man starring at me for the first fifteen minutes, upon arriving at the pool. I just couldn't bring myself to take off my hoodie, even when Andrew begged.
I felt silly and I just wanted to hide. So my hair was let down and my face withdrawn behind it's red curtains and I waited patiently, trying not to cry or show any of my discomfort for Andrew's sake.
I eventually retreated to the room and wept silently for a bit. When Andrew made his way back to the room, he wanted to help, but I just couldn't tell him. I just cried. I cried so much. I was so disgusted with my body. I couldn't even bare to look at myself in the mirror, even while wearing my favourite outfit, even while trying to fix the parts of me that I like best. I just felt ugly.
I felt bad for putting Andrew in that situation. And every time I tried to stop crying for his benefit, I just cried more. Eventually he had no idea what to do and he turned on the god-damned television. Probably out of frustration and probably just to tune out the sobs. Obviously that made things worse.
I did eventually stop and we silently made our way downstairs for a walk along the Parkway. I didn't say much down, but on the way back I apologised and tried to make him understand that there was nothing he could do for me in that sort of situation.
He told me again how much he loved me and that he thought I was beautiful, no matter what I thought of myself, but hearing that from your boyfriend, is sort of like hearing it from your mother: They have to say it. They don't have a choice.

So I felt better when we finally went to gamble. Andrew, I think lost forty dollars, which was a small comfort, knowing full well how much he is willing to loose.
We went to the Flying Saucer and had a shit load of food and a god damed stine of beer that was literally the size of my head. There were some loud, stereotypical, college-guys sitting behind us, which were insanely annoying. I was thankful that Andrew was with me then, because I'm sure all of them were too afraid to say anything cruel to a girl that was with a man of his size.

Upon arriving back at the hotel I knew that Andrew would want to have sex. I was still feeling sort of awful from my body-complex-cry-athon, so getting to the state of where I was enjoying it was difficult. Andrew pushed and pulled and carressed and complimented, but nothing worked. I even, almost started to cry again. Eventually he flipped me over, which helped a lot, as I feel that the back of me is nowhere as offensive as the front.
He calmly slipped his fingers into me and ran my juice up to my asshole. I felt a splash drop on my left cheek and I braced myself for the penetration of his index finger. Preparing one's self for anal is difficult. Letting your entire body go limp for the girth of a penis popping open your ass isn't as easy as it sounds. Muslces tighten involuntarily, making the experience very far from a pleasant one, IF you just. don't. go. limp.
He ran his finger in and out of my ass as he slid his cock back into my pussy. At this point, the furthest thing from my mind was body image. He took his finger out of my ass, as he got into the rythym of our bodies grinding and pulled my head back so my tits would be exposed.

"Fuck my ass, Andrew. Pppllleeeaaassseee," I squealed.

He grunted hard, not wanting his cock to leave my warm pussy, but relented. He put his hands on my hips and pulled me up so my ass was in the air and my face was in the sheets.

"Relax," he cooed. "It will only hurt for a minute."

And it did. And then I was lost in a montage of dirty words and lust-filled cries.
He eventually flipped me over onto my back and put a pillow under my ass. My legs spread open, and were thrust into the air. I curled slightly and his dick was back again, pounding my ass hard. I had never been in that position before and the angle at which his cock was hitting my insides caused all sorts of mixed feelings.
I slid my fingers into my pussy and felt his dick pushing against the walls of my asshole. My eyes rolled back in my head, I felt the sweat from his body dripping on my chest. I screamed too loud, my body began to shake. I could feel his muscles tighten, I could feel my fingers getting increasingly wet from the state of my already soaked pussy.
I literally screeched as he continued to push in me and then with one mighty thrust he came into my ass and we both collapsed, exhuasted.

"Woo."

He went to have a shower while I laid sprawled on the bed. My body was tingling and shaking softly from the exotic trauma it had just experienced. I eventually went to have my shower, but noticed the vacant, massive bathtub and decided to emerge myself in some steamy water, rather than take a shower. After all, Andrew had spent a load of cash on the room, I wasn't about to let the massive bath go to waste.
I left the water feeling warm and relaxed. That bath did more for my aching body than anything else had in ten years.

There is no doubt about it. Anal sex in the, "Waking Up the Nieghbours" position is tops and there is not a woman on the planet that can refuse the enjoyment of a tub full of hot water.

The next morning I coaxed Andrew out of bed to try my courage at the swimming pool. I did get in, and upon doing so, realised that my bathing suit is easily two sizes too big for me, which is a very comforting feeling. However, getting out of a pool, wearing a bathing suit two sizes too big, is not. Water logged clothing that is too large, falls down easily and I'm sure I showed some crack. Poor lifeguard.
We went for breakfast in the hotel restaurant, located on the thirty-third floor and filled our bellies with french toast and pastries, omlets and yogurt, sausage and milk. It was the best breakfast buffet I've ever had and I'm not going to lie, I may go there again, even if I'm not a one-night Hilton resident.
Afterwards, we checked out of our room and Andrew stuffed me with his cock one last time.
We ventured to the old casino, where Andrew lost eighty dollars and promised me tenderly that he would not go gambling at least for another two months.

On the way home we stopped to get some glass for Christmas presents, and picked up some earrings at Niagara Square to replace my old, plastic ones.
We slept the rest of the day and at around six, Andrew left, leaving me feeling sleepy, happy and sad. I hate seeing him leave. It's hard to see the one person that I want to be with, drive away every week, knowing fully well that I may not see him for quite some time. It's easy to forget when he is not here how much I do love him and how much I want nothing but him.
But I suppose my mind has to be filled with other interests in order to forget the ache of my heart, every time he leaves.

Needless to say, the Hilton left a lasting impression on most parts of me.

I miss the experience already.

Spare Ribs.

Two days ago, Josh poked me so hard that my insides exploded and have left me in a massive state of:

OUCH.

I've never felt such a meticulous and consistent pain before. It's as annoying as all get up.

This stupid pain in my side has left me with all sorts of problems and as it turns out, is more of a pain in my ass.
Telling your boyfriend how you randomly can't have sex with him because curling into a ball, or attempting to coil into the positions that he oh-so-loves, is not an option for our $200 nightly Hilton stay this upcoming Thursday, makes for an unhappy Andrew. Telling your boyfriend that another man has left you bruised and in a slightly less than agonizing state makes for an unhappy Andrew. Telling your friend Josh that you can no longer be his friend because your boyfriend has banished him from your all encompassing existence, makes for an unhappy Josh. Trying to make everyone happy, including myself, without sneaking behind the backs of friends and lovers makes for an unhappy diddums.

The grand poke has fudged it all up and now I'm all fudged up and unfortunately, the thing that's fudged up the most, are my poor and neglected ribs. Owie.

My attempts to just stop talking to Josh last night failed miserably. It's hard to cease all correspondance with someone on the drop of a dime. Especially when it's someone you enjoy being with, even if he is a pain.
I don't particularly know what to do about it and the pressure from Big-Brother-Mikey, standing on his perch, watching me protectively from Chemicals each night is making it more impossible, ONLY because he seems to be the personification of a guilt trip.

I can't just stop talking to Josh. But I probably should. For lots of reasons.

It's strange how life gives you the right cards to play, but somehow, you always manage to muck it all up, even when you've got luck on your side.

Dum, Dum, Da, Dum.

Ahhhh. Weddings are nice.

Well, maybe weddings with Andrew's family are nice. My family weddings suck ass 'cause they're full of imbociles and sobbing fathers and bad dresses and high priced wine for all the family members you never, ever want to talk to, even on happy occassions.
Andrew's family weddings are simple and happy and full of mum's and dad's with silver lined feet and silly brothers whom drink to much and attempt to moon walk across the old floor of an even older community center. Too much fun.
It was really a perfect Autumn day and I am happy for the bride and groom because everything was picturesque. The rolling meadows that flowed outside the tiny church, the gentle breeze, the warm fall colours... The old ladies who tried to steal away the plates of roast beef and mashed potatoes before we even had a chance to stab at 'em. It reminded me of a Hallmark made for TV movie about a happy family, in another time, that didn't have a care in the world and was just happy to exist in the memories of eachother. It was terribly uplifting, and upon arriving home to my uncomfortalbe and miserable home, terribly depressing.

I realised that day that if Andrew and I did live closer, I would have dumped him quite a long while ago. He's sort of clueless in regards to how to handle a girlfriend. Watching her shiver outside and not offering her your coat is a bad sign, so is leaving her to sit by herself in the middle of a bunch of strangers while you go mingle with someone you haven't seen in a couple months. As annoying and frustrating as it was, I couldn't dump him over stupid things like that now. Love is the mender of all wrongs.
At the same time I wouldn't change Andrew for anything. I hate forgetting the bits of him that make me love him. And when I spend so much time apart from him, it's easier to forget that fluttery feeling that floats through me whenever he's around. And of course, as soon as he returns, there it is. Smacking me in the face like the mighty hand of God, keeping me in-line and filling me to the brim with all sorts of wonderful (no pun intended).

I eventually, by many aunts and mums, was pulled onto the floor and made to wiggle around like a diseased sausage. Dancing is an awful form of exercise. I squirmed back to the wall, and pasted my body to it, like a proper wallflower and then a slow song came about. I felt like a stupid teenager at a highschool dance, waiting for her crush to ask for a go while everyone watched with expectant eyes.
Andrew did ask me to dance, and we did make fools of ourselves as he tried to spin me and dip me and twirl me across the floor, but I didn't mind. Not at all. 'Cause everyone in his family loved it and were happy because we were happy and that was the first time I had ever experienced such an overwhelming feeling of joy.

Sillly Families.

At around twelve, massive cheese platters with pickles and deli meat were dropped on the long tables in the basement of the hall. Andrew and I gorged ourselves on little cakes and coffee, which eventually made my belly do summersaults. We spoke to his family, and I made friends with a bunch of different members. The sister of the groom was wearing the same shirt as me, which was a bit of a let-down in the, "looking good" department, but after having everyone tell me that I looked better in it, I felt much more secure.

'Cause Damn, I was lookin' hot.

Eventually Andrew and I stomped back up the stairs and had another go at some dancing. We went to cool ourselves off through one of the side doors. I walked in my stockings onto the bare cement steps and shivered as the cold stone touched my toes. Andrew wrapped his arms around me and we kissed for a minute. We broke away to look at the stars and talk about the night's events. I eventually snuggled back into him, which lead to an insane fit of kissing. It was hot and cold all at once and while he was thinking, "Fuck, I want to screw her right now,' I was thinking, 'Damn, I love him.' And while both thoughts are accurate to the people involved, knowing that he was thinking that made me love him so much more because that's just who Andrew is.
That moment was like a dream that I didn't want to wake up from and I'm a little overwhelmed because I have never, ever, properly been in romantic love like this before.

Eventually Scott, Andrew's brother was so insanely drunk he decided to break both his legs which caused massive fits of laughter by everyone who wittnessed the event.
I do not think, I've ever been more amazed by a single family in my entire lifetime. And now I'm thinking that I need to marry Andrew, just for the experience of the wedding.