Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Some Early Morning Pre-Caffeine Thoughts

I am sleepy. Seepy, if you will. I had an 8:30 class this morning, and I'm really just not a bundle of cheer and goodness in the a.m. I'm more like a bear-trap full of maggots and feces. Also, the kitten decided to play "Jump on ThePeach's Face" at 5am. When I get home, I've got a special game for him. It's called "Milo gets skewered and rotisseried over an open flame and then eaten because kitten meat is tender".

Anyway, here are some thoughts that made me smile this morning. And by "smile", I mean grimace and glare creepily out of my one open eye. That's my morning smile.

1. I am currently eating another gelatinous egg-unit sandwich from tim horton's. I don't know why. I just don't. I didn't even want one - I just felt like I needed one. And it's not even good. Yet - it gives me warm feelings deep inside. Deep inside my bowel.

2. My prof - an old, English lady - used the word "cunt" in our lecture this morning at 8:30 am. Cunt at 8:30 am...I wanted to laugh, but all I could manage at 8:30 am was a throaty cough and an eye twitch. But it was an appreciative eye twitch. I have newfound respect for her. She rocks out with her vock out.

3. As I was stumbling around in my kitchen like a blind-folded tard this morning at 7:30, I came across (teehee!) a picture that EvilBird sent me in a care package over the weekend. The care package consisted of gravol (yes!), kleenex (finally!), candy (woot!), booze (WOOT!) and a picture that she took of me when I was 16. We were at a swimming competition and thus were staying in a hotel. In the picture, I am standing over a bidet, wearing a peeling mud-mask (for the pores, bitches), and fellating a giant cucumber. Wow, turns out I was always a cracked-out whore. That picture makes me laugh out loud every time I think about it. Oh, the things we did when we were 16...did anyone else fellate vegetables while wearing facial masks and standing over bidets? TheHubby, I'm looking in your direction.

Well anyway, those are my random morning thoughts. There is now caffeine coursing through my veins and I can feel the egg-unit sliding around in my gullet, leaving a trail of sludge and decay in its wake. All is right with the world.

Oh, and I have a pooter date for lunch. Pooter = poutine, not va-j-j.

Good thing I'm taking out my rage on the treadmill or I would be one gianty fatty.


Monday, October 30, 2006

ThePeach Does Stuff

I need to keep busy. Free time = the sads. I am sick of the sads. Thus, I did the following things today to keep busy and shut my cry-hole:

1. Decided to paint my apartment. Change is good. Projects are good. Me doing any do-it-yourself projects is disastrous, but this is the most practical of all my post-breakup irrational decisions that people had to talk me out of. Like removing my IUD (“but it makes me think of FauxHawk!” “But it keeps you from having babies!” “But it makes me think of” “NO BABIES!!! *slap*”), or quitting my job and school to go live with TheNurse (“but you have a cat…and an apartment…and a job…put down the credit card, woman!! PUT IT DOWN!! *slap*”), or running away to Mexico to flip tortillas for a living (“But I need to get the fuck away from here, TheHubby!!” “No.” “…Wanna come?” “…YES!!” “Ok, you steal a car and I’ll put Milo in his carrying case!” “Weee! TheHubby and ThePeach are moving to Mexico and – hey, isn’t Lost on tonight? Forget it.” “I hate you.”)

So anyway, I will very shortly be painting my apartment. I spent almost my entire work day looking up colours on the Debbie Travis Website. Debbie Travis is a corporate whore who looks like she likes it up the acorn, but I appreciate her handy website. So ya – painting! As soon as I ask my landlord. And buy paint. And brushes. And drop sheets. And oh fucking forget it. It’s too much work. I’ll just hire some homeless to do it for me. I’ll pay them in blow and hand-jobs – the same way I pay my rent.

2. Went out for Sushi and ice cream with TheHippie and TheHubby. As usual, I was terrified of running into the ‘Hawk. Sushi is a common love of ours. Luckily, he avoided the sushi tonight. Just like he did for the past 4 months of our relationship. Zing. And, also, gross.

Anyway, our wasabi dreams were answered and we had a beautiful 3-way love-date. Just me and my husband and wife.

3. Went on an apartment purge. I threw everything that reminded me of FauxHawk into a box and I threw that box in the back of my closet. I wanted to burn it, but I’m out of Kerosene. Damnit, I need to keep more of that shit around!

4. Cleaned up the chaos that Milo left in my apartment. The fucker knocked down 2 sets of shelves in my bedroom, broke one of them, and knocked every single thing I own onto the floor. Then, because he was scared, he tried to hide in the curtains. Then he got stuck in the curtains. Then he broke the curtains. Then he peed somewhere in my apartment that I haven’t been able to locate but can smell. Then I put him in a sack and beat the sack with a baseball bat and put the sack in the bathtub and filled the tub with water and held the sack under the water with the bat until ALL THE EVIL WAS GONE. Ok, I made up that last part. You all know water doesn’t get rid of evil. Kerosene does. DAMNIT WHY DON’T I KEEP MORE OF THAT SHIT AROUND?!

Now I am going to take a break from mania to watch “The Bachelor: Rome”. A girl needs trash in her life.


Sunday, October 29, 2006

ThePeach Survives Another Weekend; Makes Friends with TheDude and The Treadmill

Weekend #2 of heartache was another interesting one. I will be happy when I no longer feel like shit 24/7, but who the fuck knows when that will happen. In the mean time, I have cookie dough, playgirl, and a new mp3 player with a list of chick-tastic songs to get me through.


You know the elaborate plans we had to smoke pot and do karaoke? The plans were seriously flawed, and no one saw it coming. I went over to TheHippie and TheHubby’s house, and we all eagerly smoked what we thought was a little bit of the pot. Then we smoked a little more. Then TheHubby thought he was dying and I started contemplating (aloud, of course) how elaborately humans try to cover up their natural states: we deodorize, we soap, we wash, we perfume, we use elaborate air fresheners: all to cover up the fact that humans smell. Humans smell. We smell because we are animals; we should be giving birth in fields and OH GOD WE’RE TOO HIGH TO LEAVE THE HOUSE.

Ya…we forgot that one of us was supposed to stay sober until we got to the restaurant to make sure that we actually left the house and could function in public. But, between TheHubby being convinced that he was having multiple heart attacks, TheHippie screaming in laughter and rolling around on the futon, and me trying to force us all to go in the backyard and roll around naked in the grass like THE ANIMALS WE ARE – we were fucked. So, our night of karaoke and sushi turned into watching “Hocus Pocus” on YTV and making KD and Grilled Cheese. It was still beautiful, just a different kind of beautiful from what we had been hoping.

At the end of the night I took a cab home and sat dully in front of my computer being a sad wreck. I talked to WeeOne and TigerCat on msn, and they patiently let me e-cry and eventually convinced me to go to bed. I slept like a baby. A baby whose parents drug him with high doses of gravol to stop his crying, but still.


Woke up hungover, and performed my usual retarded pot-hangover routine: went to the gym. I have never sweat so much in my life. I seriously don’t know why I do this to myself every time, but my body HATES ME. And usually I at least wait until I’ve been awake for a few hours before I go attack the treadmill, but this time I wanted to get to the gym early to get there and be gone before FauxHawk might decide to go. Pathetic: Yes.

After that fiasco I spent my afternoon downloading music and reading Playgirl. I realized that Playgirl is in no way hot. If I wanted to see a dude with a shaved scrote lovingly hold his own shaft and stare seductively off into space, I’d enter TheBoss’ office without knocking a lot more. But, as it stands, I don’t want to see that. I’m not throwing the magazine out or anything, though…a girl needs cock in her life one way or another.

Next up: pretend to be fine and go out for Halloween. I, of course, was not fine. I had made plans with FauxHawk and his friends a long time ago to celebrate Halloween at a huge party with them. It is literally the party of the year, every year. The only party I would be attending this year was a pity party: RSVP list: me. Luckily TheHippie’s boyfriend was having people over and I got good and wrecked and then we went to a slutty dance bar. I continued to get loaded. The place was fucking packed full of undergrads in slutty costumes which were all variations of the same key pieces: a corset, a garder, and thigh-highs. Throw a different hat on each whore and you have a room full of “creative” costumes:

“I’m a sexy nurse! I’m a sexy cowgirl! I’m a sexy cop! I’m a sexy golf-pro!”

I went out as a sexy GO TO HELL.

And yet…I picked up a dude. He smiled at me, I smiled at him. He shimmied his way over to me on the dance floor and made small-talk. TheHippie and her boyfriend approved of TheDude and told me to bang him:

TheHippie: He’s hot!!!
Boyfriend: Take him home!!!!
ThePeach: I don’t wanna. I wanna go home and cry myself to sleep again.
TheHippie/Boyfriend: *slap*…*slap*
ThePeach: Well…get me drunker and then we’ll see.
TheDude: Um...you do realize that I'm standing right here?

I did get drunker, but that only made me sadder. I am sorry to say that I left TheDude on the dance floor and walked home alone, where I did indeed cry myself to sleep. I’m sorry – I know how badly you want my blog to turn into The Trampage Diaries!! I want it just as much as you – probably more, since I’ll be the one getting laid. I was furious when I got home. Furious that FauxHawk dumped me, furious that I love him, furious that I couldn’t bone TheDude because I love FauxHawk, furious that FauxHawk is probably boning chicks already and all I have is a fucking Playgirl!!! Oh man, I certainly cried the ugly cry that night in bed.


Sleep brings clarity. I woke up feeling much better. I checked my facebook account (ya…I’m one of *those* now…fuck off) and found a message from TheDude. He somehow found me and wasn’t pissed that I left him in the slutty dance bar. He asked if I would go out for a drink with him this week.

I said yes. *insert choir of angels*

Maybe I still love FauxHawk. Maybe I’m a fucking mess. But I’ve also been asked out by 2 different people in the 10 days since I got dumped without any effort on my part. I am a great fucking catch, and some people actually appreciate that. FauxHawk does not appreciate that and never did and thus can kiss my sweet ass. And even if TheDude turns out to be a loser and I have to sneak out of the bar while he’s in the bathroom, I am still trying to move on balls-out. The heart will follow the balls – or something like that.

The best way to get over a guy is to get under another. So here’s hoping I don’t catch syphilis.

After I responded to TheDude’s message I went to the gym and had an amazing run. I had my chick-tastic tunes blaring and I took out my fury on the treadmill. And hopefully on my ass.

Now I am heading over to TheHippie/TheHubby’s to rent “Stick it” (yep…the gymnastic movie for pre-teens…it seems like an amazing idea to me) with them and Cleavage. I’ll probably come home and cry myself to sleep afterwards, but fuck it. I’m a mess for sure – but I’m a hot mess.

And guys dig vulnerable chicks because we're easy.


Friday, October 27, 2006

The Breakup Diaries: Day One-fucking-Million

It feels like it's been a million fucking days. My ribs hurt. My face actually burns. I should really buy some fucking brand-name kleenex instead of mopping up my snot with 1-ply food-basics brand toilet paper. I'm ghetto-tastic. I didn't update yesterday because all I could have written would have been: "cried. moped around. ate some shit, probably. weeped gently. whined."

So, to make up for it...

Today's Breakup Diaries are brought to you by the letter "C".

CRIED: Shocker!! On the bright side, at least I finally know that I'm not dead inside?

COOKIE DOUGH: How fucking stereotypical am I? I should be shot. Or I'll just wait for a clump of dough to settle in my heart - whatever is faster.

CAT-PISS: I smell like cat piss as a result of lying on my stinky futon all afternoon. The drycleaners can suck my ASS - my futon still reeks of urine. And now, so do I. That's appealing, right? Wanna lay me now? I smell like a homeless person. Some people like that.

CALLS: I have been getting calls at work all day about this new fucking study that TheBoss is running. The study is about women with broken gashes. These women piss themselves and can't lay their husbands. They call me at work and tell me about their troubles. Which leads me to...

CRAZY BITCHES: The women who call me at work are all crazy bitches. I haven't slept in 9 days. I am grumpy. I do not want to hear about YOUR GREEN URINE/SORE POOTER/ADULT DIAPERS!!!!!!!! All they are supposed to do is give me their mailing addresses. But, of course, they don't.

CUNT-SCAB: That pretty much describes my mood today. I feel like a cunt-scab.

CANNABIS: Thank fucking god. TheHippie, TheHubby and I are going to get fucking ripped off the weed and then go to...

CARAOKE: Fuck off. I know it's spelled "karaoke", but that didn't fit in with my scheme. Willingly suspend your disbelief, cunt-scabs. But anyway, somehow we decided that it would be genius to smoke an assload of pot and then go do some karaoke in a private room in the back of a sketchy sushi bar. Seriously. Pot? Raw fish? Microphones? This can only end well. I'll let you know tomorrow, unless I throw a chair at a Japanese waiter in a heart-wrenching rendition of "You're so Vain" and end up getting

inCARCERATED: It wouldn't be the end of the world. I think I'd fare well in prison. I'm really good at being the subservient bitch to a dominating alpha-cunt: I just had 2 years of practice, after all.

CATTY: You might have noticed that I'm getting bitchier. Less sad, more raging evil whore? I hope so. I really, really hope so.

Just for once, I want to be the dominating alpha-cunt...


Thursday, October 26, 2006

TheBreakup Diaries: Day 7

Well, it has been 1 week since I got dumped/devastated/tossed aside like a K-Fed CD. How am I holding up?

Well, I thought I had turned a corner. Less cry and more rage. There were 2 great days of rage: I ran my little wounded heart out at the gym (“take that, motherfucking treadmill!! RAGE!”), ate my neglected little stomach full of fries (take that, motherfucking fries!! RAGE!”), and added friends to facebook with the intensity of a woman on a ‘roid/speed cocktail (“take that, motherfucking facebook!! RAGE!”).

But then today…there were a few minor setbacks. Luckily my various friends and devoted babysitters took care of me…I love you bitches. And I promise I’ll stop telling you all that I love you and making you feel awkward and uncomfortable real soon, ha. (lies…I won’t stop).

I started feeling antsy around 1pm. I had to get the fuck out of my office. And possibly eat something deepfried or grilled or, if possible, both. Frances took me to a restaurant that specialized in foods that clog your heart-valves and we sat in a dark corner where no one would see or judge us. We stayed in flavour country for a good 2 hours, dipping deepfried foods in various sauces and moaning in pleasure. We got sauce on our faces, we dropped shit, we swore and laughed…it was beautiful. Not hot, but definitely beautiful. Frances told me the best thing I had heard in a long time…

She also has experience dating the Jews. Like me, she is inexplicably attracted to mens of the Jewish faith. We can’t explain it. It’s not the money stereotype (FauxHawk was far from a trust fund baby), so don’t try to pull that shit on me. But anyway, Frances had recently been dating a Jew of her own. Then he broke up with her. She was unimpressed. So unimpressed, that she grabbed the first thing she could reach and threw it at him as hard as she could. The object she happened to throw? A rosary.

Frances threw a rosary at a Jew when he broke up with her. A fucking rosary! Oh my god, why didn’t I think of that?! Oh right, because if I owned anything religious God would probably burn my house down and then send wild monkeys to urinate on it afterwards just to make sure all the evil was gone. But still….man, that’s good. My reaction?

ThePeach: Did the rosary hit him?!
Frances: Yep.
ThePeach: *gets excited* In the face!!?
Frances: In the heart.
ThePeach: YES! YES! Hey, can we order more sour cream?

So, lunch was a success. Then I got home and cradled my bloated belly until it was time for Yoga with TheHippie. We hadn’t been to Yoga in a while so I was even less bendy than usual. Plus I kept looking over my shoulder to see if FauxHawk was in the gym. I was fucking terrified the whole time that I’d look over my shoulder as I was in some contorted and painful position and spot him running on a treadmill behind me. I’d really rather not shit my pants in yoga. Or ever. But luckily I didn’t spot him. I had a minor breakdown during the 10 minutes of meditation at the end of class. You’re supposed to clear your head and let your body relax and all that other homosexual granola bullshit. When I try to clear my head and relax I start thinking about my broken, broken heart. This is why I have been running around like an adrenaline junkie all week. So, guess what happened in Yoga? Crying. Crying during meditation. Luckily I was quiet and none of the lesbians tried to comfort me.

After that fiasco I came home and ate soup that Cleavage had made me. God bless Cleavage and her beautiful, nourishing soup. I’ve been living off it for 3 days. That and apparently deepfry. My friend TheCorporate stopped by with a Breakup Survival Kit containing:

1. A 2L bottle of wine.
2. A tube of cookie dough.
3. A Sex and the City DVD.
4. A Porno Magazine.

She knows me so well!!! After she left I had a very pitiful cry where I actually said the words “*sob* I’m just so exhausted, oh god*sob*” out loud. To myself. I hate heartbroken Peach. I want to punch myself in the box for being such a loser. Luckily QueenB called and made me feel better.

Anyway, that was day 7. I made it 1 week sans Hawk. There have been horribly horribly shitty days and not so bad days. Days where I made my MasterCard sweat and days where I made my cat hug me. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. For your sake, I hope it’s hilarious.

For my sake, I hope it’s a Trampage.


Tuesday, October 24, 2006

The Breakup Diaries: Day 6

Gravol-comas and 8:30 classes do not mix well. That is the lesson I learned on day 6. My alarm went off at 7 (ya…I’m high maintenance…that’s fancy-talk for hot, jerks) and I’m pretty sure I died a little. With gravol flowing through my veins, I rolled over and grunted. The kitten started purring like a machine and settled on my chest. I was still half in my dream about being a contestant on “The Bachelor: Rome” (I’m not even attracted to that weasel-faced douche, but hey – action is action). The gravol within was fighting valiantly…

ThePeach: But…class…
ThePeach: …wanna…learn….get…good marks….
ThePeach:…go…to…grad school...
ThePeach: …leave Universitytown….and FauxHawk…forever…
ThePeach:…oh…Bachelor-Rome…how can I ever thank you…for the diamonds and gold…and the Korean slaves…

I’m officially off the gravol diet starting tonight.

After class (which I slept in), I felt the pangs of a familiar old lover: hunger. For the first time in 6 days! Rejoice! Although secretly I was a little upset that I would no longer be getting skinny as a result of the heartbreak. Stupid bodily survival instincts – you ruin everything!

I decided to celebrate my return to solid food with a Tim Horton’s Breakfast Sandwich.

Now, here’s some advice from ThePeach:

When you haven’t eaten solid food in 6 days, it’s probably not wise to start with a sandwich whose contents include a gelatinous egg-unit pulled out of a drawer filled with other gelatinous egg-units. Maybe start with some crackers or something. The egg-unit? A poor choice. Unless you like intestinal rot. In which case I know where there’s an entire drawer of gelatinous egg-units!

After the egg-unit incident, things were pretty mundane and blah. I fucked around on the internet for 4 hours, felt sorry for myself, until…


Sweet mother of Christ, yes. My friend, OfficeMate, surprised me and borrowed 2 teeny little baby puppies from a friend for an hour in the afternoon. I talked in an obnoxious high-pitched baby-voice the entire time. I wanted to punch myself in the mouth but it was still awesome. I smiled. I cradled teeny, shivering puppies. My uterus quivered. All was well for 1 hour. Best therapy ever.

And, because I am in an oddly giving mood, I want to share the good feeling with you:

Also, I wanted to post a picture of my knockers.


Monday, October 23, 2006

Milo is Disabled

Seriously...he has behavioural and mental deficits. The plastic that he is trapped under is the plastic that I used to cover the futon in his "piss all over ThePeach's life" phase. Now his peepee plastic is a fort. Or the eventual cause of his death, whatever. The important thing is that I took a picture before I rescued him. I'm good that way.


The Breakup Diaries: Day 5

Today is the day where irony kicks me in the box.

I had class today, and I hadn’t done any readings all week what with the all-consuming sobbing and all. So an hour before class I delved into some Renaissance Poetry (did you just throw up a little? I did).

My readings consisted of 80 sonnets about love.
80 sonnets. About love. About falling in love. About being in love. About loving love. About telling your bitch, through verse, that you love her.

Ya…Jebus is a tricksy, tricksy whore.

As if reading those 80 motherfucking sonnets wasn’t torturous enough, I then had to sit through an hour and a half of class where we discussed what the sonnets meant to us. I’m glad I didn’t get called on, because my most meaningful contribution would have been to hurl onto my desk and say “that’s what love means to me” or to throw my clipboard at someone’s jugular. There are a lot of big-headed socially retarded people in my class that I don’t think humanity would miss having around.

Also, in one week I have to give a presentation. On love sonnets. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far (I’ve put a lot of thought and effort into it):

“WHHHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!????? WWWWHHHHHYYYYY GGGGGOOOODDDDDD???!!!! *dry heave* IIIIIIII HAAAAAATEEEEE YOUUUUUU!!!! *swig of vodka, eyes class warily* You all can go to hell. Don’t judge me. I made some love for you right here: *throws feces*”

What do you think? Be kind – I’m fragile. Now, if only I could learn to shoot daggers out of eyes for real, I’d be all set.


Sunday, October 22, 2006

The Breakup Diaries: Day 4

CockDoc and TigerCat made me eat. I did laundry, so I don’t have to smell and look like a homeless person anymore. The kitten bit my nose. Hard. I cuddled him anyway because rough love is better than no love.

My mom called and tried to make me feel better by talking in her breathy voice:

Peach-Mom: Hhhhhiiii Peeeeeach. Hhhhhow aaaaare yyyyyyyouuuuu?
ThePeach: …fine…I’ll be fine…
Peach-Mom: Wwwwwellll, Iiiiii llllllooooveeee youuuuuu, sssssweeeetiiiieeee.
ThePeach: *shudder*

I’m a mess. A hot mess, but a mess.


The Breakup Diaries: Day 3

Starbucks Tea: $2.00
Aveda Beauty Products: $90.00
Family Guy Season 4 Dvd: $50.00
Novel: "Get Published": $10.00
Matt Barber Concert Ticket: $10.00
God knows how many Gin and Tonics: ??$$

Filling the void in my soul with material goods/alcohol: priceless.

Also, Matt Barber is a hot man who knows his way around a harmonica. We eye-fucked a little. It's 2am and I'm not crying. Thank you jesus, mary, joseph, etc.

Yours in gravol-coma induced sleeps,


Saturday, October 21, 2006

The Breakup Diaries: Day 2

Here's a fun new experiment. Let's see if misery for me = humorous for you.

Here is Day 2 of the breakup:

1. Woke up sobbing. Kitten likes to eat tears. He likes the salt. My face is all raspy from rough kitten tongue-loving.
2. Shower/cry. Skip breakfast. Skip all meals. Food makes me hurl. Breakups make me skinny?
3. Go to work. I need the distraction. TheBoss comes to check in on me, which is creepy. He puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me I'm a beautiful woman. I cry harder, mainly because I don't want to be ass-raped in my vulnerable state.
4. 2 hours of no crying. Miracle. I manically search the internet for grad schools I can apply to, or other ways to get me out of Universitytown as fast as fucking possible. TheNurse told me that a strip-club around the corner from where she lives in NZ is hiring stripper for $150/hour. Very seriously consider this option. I miss TheNurse.
5. It starts to blizzard outside. In October. It rained every day since FauxHawk and I broke up, and now it is blizzarding. That seems about right.
6. Go home. Hug kitten. Kitten is angelic bundle of love for 5 minutes, until he starts chasing demons.
7. Decide to take down FauxHawk pictures. Curl up in a ball and sob for 2 hours. TheHubby babysits me via msn. I love TheHubby.
8. TheHippie takes me to the lesbian gym for some distraction. I choose the lesbian gym so that I won't run into FauxHawk. And to surround myself with the sweet, tender love of lesbians. I do a half-assed run and want to pass out. Food would probably be a good idea at some point. I love TheHippie.
9. Frances comes over with $40 worth of pizza, chicken, and brownies. I love Frances. If I ever go dyke I'll totally do her first. The delivery man hits on us. I eat one piece of pizza and want to hurl my guts out. Frances babysits me for 3 hours.
10. TheCrazy and TOP make me go out. I cry in the bar but they are understanding. I love them. They buy my drinks. I do not get shmammered because I don't want to do the ugly cry in the bar. One of their friends asks me out. He must like miserable, crying messes. I say no for now but he makes me promise to consider it later on. Whatever. I'm claiming a-sexuality. And I'll cut off my right leg before I date another doctor.
11. TOP walks me home. I sob. It's a recurring theme. I check my email and my english prof has emailed me twice to say not to bother writing the essay that is supposed to be due monday (I told her what happened in the hopes she would be understanding). She told me she'd re-weight my other assignments. She calls me "sweet, sweet Peach", which makes me cry. My prof is my new best friend.
12. Gravol/sleep-med cocktail. Sob myself to sleep with kitten's raspy tongue scraping along my cheek. ow.

So, that was day 2. How many more of these do I have to fucking go through before I'm normal again? My tear ducts hurt. Thank god I have babysitters. I need one for today, by the way. Anyone who reads this and wants to babysit me should call me. I won't be fun and I won't pay you. Sound fun?



Thursday, October 19, 2006

ThePeach Experiences Heart-Break; Doesn’t Enjoy It

FauxHawk and I broke up for real/good/ever last night. I’m devastated, not gonna lie. They should make a pill for heart-break, because it’s the worst feeling in the world. If they can make a pill to allow old men to get erections, why can’t they do this? Is geriatric sex really a top priority?

How are you supposed to move on when you’re both still in love with each other? Does it ever happen? And while I’m asking questions, how do I stop crying at work? Because it’s getting awkward for the janitor and the tim horton's napkins really chafe my nose.

Day 1 of the breakup and I already want to die. Awesome. I’d go home and hug the kitten, but he’ll just eat my face and that will make me cry more. How do you get over 2 years of your life? Wine?

Fauxhawk will probably read this and think I’m pathetic. Fuck it.

Fuck it all.


Monday, October 16, 2006

ThePeach and TigerCat get a Birthday Message from CoorsLight

Ahhh Birthdays. Gotta love them, right?


TigerCat and I happen to have birthdays that are only a week apart. Well, 3 years and a week apart, but whatever. The take-home message is that our birthdays are close together and often celebrated by our lazy family on the same day. This year was no exception. I turned 24 on the 5th, TigerCat turned 21 on the 12th (we is old fucks, TigerCat. Let’s run away and start new lives) and our mom threw us a family b-day party on the 7th. This part-ay took place at our grandfather’s house and consisted of several key family ingredients:

1. Inebriated Grandpa

Ah yes, it’s just not a family get-together, or any day after 5pm, if our grandpa isn’t drunk. Things started going down-hill when my mom’s live-in poured wine for everyone at the table, and when he got to my grandfather’s glass…

Peach Grandpa: “Hey sonny, don’t be a Jew! Are you afraid we’ll run out?” *pushes finger onto bottle-tip and dumps large quantity of wine into his glass*

Not that I don’t love a good crack at the Jewish people. Stingy bastards.

(Peach edit: I am being sarcastic. I fully respect the Jewish people, especially FauxHawk. Please still love/lay me.)

2. Maternal ‘Dis

Our mom has this way of making us feel totally unimportant at times, which I suppose is understandable. Clearly it is more important to make your 3rd husband happy (and I will call him her husband despite the fact that they are not married, because they have lived together for 2 years and refer to each other as husband and wife. Although this is very wrong and bad of them and they should really refer to each other as “sinful live-in” if they want to be technical) than it is to make your 2 children happy on their birthday. Because your 2 children won’t leave you…and if they do, they probably won’t steal your money.

So, my mom was supposed to make us a special birthday dinner that night. That morning she announced that she was going to make us an overly healthy/heart-smart pasta dish which neither of us had ever had before. We were under the impression that she was going to make us our favourite meal, but whatever, we flowed with it. Until…

ThePeach: *watching mother stir dog-food’ish concoction* …that looks…good…mom.
TigerCat: *trying to hold back food-snob disdain* ….is that…canned salmon?
Peach/Tiger Mom: LaLaLa! This is my husband’s favourite meal! He loves it when I make it at home!
ThePeach: …I see…so it makes sense to make your live-in’s favourite meal on your children’s birthday.
TigerCat: …and I’m assuming he likes this meal because the canned salmon served over whole wheat pasta with no discernable traces of sauce conforms to his heart-healthy diet?
Peach/Tiger Mom: It’s your birthday?

3. Kick in the balls

Sometimes the annual birthday kick in the balls comes when our rich aunt forgets her only nieces birthdays, or when our mother gives us the wrong directions to the restaurant we’re supposed to go to, which happens to be inside a bowling alley, and by the time TigerCat and I finally find the place the family has already ordered and finished appetizers.

This year’s birthday kick in the balls came courtesy of CoorsLight. For those who need a brief family history (prepare yourself…it’s scary peering into our lives), here goes:

My mom divorced our Dad after a brief 5 years of marriage, when I was 3 and TigerCat was a wee baby. We’re pretty sure TigerCat and I are fully related, but it’s very possible that TigerCat is the love-child of the milk-man/post-man/any-man. My mom managed without a man in her life for exactly 6 months, when she met CoorsLight at a bar, leaving her 2 sleeping babies at home. Hopefully with a sitter. CoorsLight moved in with us when I was 5 and TigerCat was 2 (approximately…it feels like he was always in the house, like the mold in the walls). For 11 years, he reigned over the family like King of the motherfucking dysfunctional castle. He was often unemployed, usually drunk, and always a real pisser. He scared away friends and boyfriends, handled all the finances, and tried to adopt us despite the fact that our father was still alive and visiting us on a bi-weekly basis. For 11 years, he played daddy. He wanted to be daddy. Daddy of boys who liked sports and tools, but still. Then, when I was 16, my mom made me pack up my room into a laundry hamper and I lived with my dad for a while and TigerCat got shipped off to our rich aunt’s where she was put on a macrobiotic diet and slapped for eating chocolate. 3 months later, I helped our mother break the locks in our house so that we could move out while CoorsLight was at work. TigerCat flew back home to our new shack in the ghetto, and we started anew. CoorsLight immediately found a new single-mom and moved in with her (in fact, he had been dating her before we moved out). His new gf had a son. CoorsLight’s life dream had been achieved and TigerCat and I got the parental heave-ho except for the occasional awkward visit to his new house where his gf would get drunk and yell at us, and the random email showing us pics of what I assume was their secret honeymoon.

Well…that was less fun to write than I had hoped. But I bet you understand why I’m a bitter fuck a little bit more than before!

Anyway, I hadn’t heard from CoorsLight in about a year and a half…but on my birthday, an e-mail popped up in my inbox. It was from CoorsLight and the subject was “Happy Birthday!!”. Oh my god, he remembered! He hasn’t forgotten about his ex-step-daughter! I opened the email…

It was blank. Not a single word was written inside.

Huh. Tricky. Tricky, indeed. Well, maybe he accidentally deleted the text. He’s not exactly internet-savvy. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and wrote him back a long update on my life, complete with pictures. I waited for a response…

A week later, my sister received an email from CoorsLight on her birthday. The subject: “Happy Birthday!!”. She opened it…

It was blank.

Huh. Tricky. Tricky, indeed.

It probably would have been easier to just write “FUCK YOU!!!” in the email, but I suppose leaving it blank gives the same message: “You are unimportant. I have a son now. He likes tools. Your mother is a crazy bitch. I hate you by association. My drunk wife says Hi and ‘fffffack off!’. I sent you an email on your birthday so that I could sleep at night. In my big bed in my big house that I bought with the money I stole from your college funds. CoorsLight”.

I never received a reply to my email.

We do not enjoy our birthdays.

Don’t feel guilty for laughing at this post. You should laugh. I laugh. Then I cry. Then I cut myself.

Kidding! I don’t laugh.

Kidding again! This is fun. I’m really quite normal considering – don’t you think?


Monday, October 09, 2006

ThePeach Gets Told

I promise to do a big update on my weekend of birthday/turkey/drunk grandpa soon, but first I just need to share something that happened to me this afternoon.

After I got dropped off in Universitytown, I decided I would go for a run. The sun was shining, there was hardly any wind, and there was gravy bubbling in the ventricles of my heart. I figured some exercise was due. So, I changed into my sweats and a hot little lulu top, laced up my shoes, and trudged my way down a popular running path.

Although my lungs burned, my legs ached, my stomach was full of pie, and I was sweating like a whore in church – I felt pleased that I was getting some exercise and happy that I was able to enjoy the outdoors. I passed a sweet elderly man who was walking along the path and I smiled at him, as opposed to tripping him and pushing him into the lake like I’m sure you all imagine I do on a regular basis.

As I smiled and ran past him, he turned to me and shouted:



Do you think he was insulting my slow, haggard running style? Or maybe my heavy breathing? Could he smell the meat-sweats I had going on? Had my weekend of gluttony enlarged my ass to a size that deemed me un-fit for marriage? For living?

What the fuck, old man? What the fuck. Now I wish I had kicked you after-all. In the back of the knees. Where I usually kick old people.

I came home and immediately ate pie. If I’m going to die alone I might as well get my fat on.


Monday, October 02, 2006

ThePeach Dabbles in Depression

I hope you’re not looking to feel all warm and cuddly on the inside today. This post isn’t going to evoke images of puppies giving kisses to robust elderly people in wheelchairs set against a backdrop of blue sky splattered with sunshine and rainbows. If that’s what you want, I recommend you go away. Now. Run along, Sunshine-Joe!

I have not been in the best of spirits lately. Yesterday I cuddled up on my (still) plastic-wrapped futon with my purring kitten and a can of icing and watched tv for 3 hours and it did nothing to help. Icing and forced-kitten-love is scraping the barrel of attempted-cheer for me and it did nothing! The goggles, they do nothing! I am in a shit-tacular mood and nothing, it seems, is going to alleviate the moodiness.

Here are some reasons why I hate the world right now:

1. Plague of Death

I am sick. I have been sick for like 2 weeks. I haven’t been to the gym, so I haven’t been able to sweat away calories and justify the shit I normally eat on a regular basis. Like pooter with extra gravy. And deep fried cheeses. There was one glorious week where I couldn’t eat anything without hurling, but the plague of death migrated from my stomach to my throat and now I want to eat nothing but pastries and then lie around and possibly eat more pastries and then maybe sleep a little.

I think I lost 3 pounds from all the barfing and not eating. It’s like god gave me anorexia and bulima all at once, but then took it away and gave it someone who really needed it – like a UniversityTown frosh who just bought her first set of stretch-pants. I got my appetite back last Wednesday in a big, bad way. One minute the thought of food made me want to curl up and die, and the next minute I was giving pizza-pizza my credit card number over the phone and pacing the hallway in front of my door waiting for the doorbell. God giveth control over food and he taketh away. Luckily, I now worship Hawaiian pizza and jalapeno dipping sauce as my new saviour and have rejected organized religion altogether, so I say God Shmod.

So, anyway, now I am in the “sick and starving” phase of my illness. My days consist of salivating over the thought of pastries and popping Tylenol Cold and then hallucinating because daytime cold meds fuck up my brain-stem. Just like Vim Oxy-Gel – something TheBitches bought in bulk and forced me to use to clean the shower. I would emerge from the shower sans nasal-hairs, drooling, talking in tongues, and walking in circles because my brain refused to recognize the right side of my body. That’s pretty much how I feel now, but with nose-hairs. And more hallucinations.

I am fully aware that I am annoying the living shit out of anyone who talks to me by complaining constantly about the plague that has over-taken my wee body – but I don’t care. It’s my right as an invalid. And as a raging bitch.

2. Becoming Elderly

It is my birthday on Thursday. I turn 24. This is elderly and unacceptable. The next person who tells me “24 is young! You’re being a crazy whore!” is going to get slapped in the mouth BECAUSE YOU ARE WRONG. 24 is old. OLD. Yes, I am aware that many to most of my blog readers are older than me. Many to most of my friends are older than me. My boyfriend is 8 years older than me. This does not comfort me. Y’all might die first, but I’m still fucking old.

For the love of Hawaiian pizza with jalapeno dipping sauce, I am going to get drunk on my birthday this year. Unless of course I have succumbed to the plague by then, in which case you should probably just send flowers to my mom and make sure someone finds my body before the kitten eats my face. Little fucker.

I know there are more reasons why I hate the world, but I think I’m done here. You get the idea. I am sick and old. It is a bad combo. I better watch that I don’t crack a hip and die of water on the lung.

Yours in day-time cold med induced hallucinations,