Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Afternoon Sucks, Too

I just licked 40 large envelopes. I lost my glue-stick, my usual envelope-sealing weapon of choice. I just licked 40 fucking envelopes.

Ow, my brain-stem.

I have this sudden urge to drink shoe-polish and move up north...


ThePeach Fucking Hates Morning

I am a crank-skank bitch this morning. I fucking hate morning.

It was an early day today, which began hours before my alarm went off with the kitten jumping spastically on my stomach. Remembering the mouse incident, I immediately shot out of bed and hit the lights to see what in the name of holy Christ the kitten had killed now.

He was attacking a small piece of white plastic. Curious. I threw the plastic in the garbage to prevent the kitten from choking to death (fucker will eat anything), and the kitten responded to this by latching onto my wrist-veins with his pointy devil-teeth. I shook him off and crawled back into bed. The pissed-off kitten arched through the air and landed on my forehead/temple/brain. I cocooned myself beneath 2 layers of blankets to protect my flesh and managed to fall back asleep with the kitten grunting and pacing my bed, looking for any exposed skin to destroy.

When I got into the shower a few hours later, I realized where the piece of white-plastic had come from as I noticed yet another shredded hole in my shower curtain the size of a small kitten-mouth.

I had an 8:30 class today, but prior to that I had to meet some work-men who were coming to my apartment to patch up the hole in my bathroom wall. The hole had been there when I moved in and was always gnarly and rank, but it had been covered by layers of tape and I had thus been able to ignore it. Until the kitten started eating his way through the tape and crawling around inside the bathroom wall, that is. Knowing that some day he would forget his way back to the outside world and end up pacing and grunting inside the walls until he starved to death, I pressured my landlord to fix the fucking hole. It finally happened at 7:45am this morning. I fucking hate morning.

After letting the work-men into my bathroom, I headed for my motherfucking class. Exhausted and cranky, I was greeted by my bright-eyed, blouse-wearing, stringy-haired English-geek classmate. He asked me if I had started the essay that is due on Friday. I grunted and squinted my eyes in a definitive “fuck no”. He chirped that he had already finished but was having problems working the Freudian symbolism into his conclusion. I looked at him warily through one slitted eye and rubbed my nose in a warm “go to hell, smegma”. He then reminded me that we had another project due next Tuesday in the same class. I sipped my caffeine and then spit the scalding liquid INTO HIS CORNEA. I wish. Fuck.

Once again, my professor incorporated use of the word “Cunt” into our lecture. Cunt at 8:30 am. I’m not a fan. Give me cunt any other time of day and I’m cool. But 8:30am…no. I should mention that the class is “English Literary Criticism”, not “Old British Woman is Fascinated with The Gash”.

After class, I was dazed and exhausted. I immediately craved an egg-unit and my bowels immediately recoiled in horror. WHY?? Why do I crave the egg-unit any time I’m fatigued and disoriented??! I don’t even like the egg-unit!! I definitely don’t like intestinal rot!! I shared my craving with AsianCymbals over msn, and she made me promise that I wouldn’t get one. She keeps me strong, that one. But now I am sitting here and all I can think about is how great it would feel to have a slimy luke-warm egg-unit sliding down my throat, the processed cheese coating my molars with an orange film and the sausage-puck clogging my bowels…

I am sick and I need help.

On the bright side, it is now 11:21 am and in 9 minutes it will become socially acceptable for me to eat lunch. Maybe that will get my mind off egg-units.

I need a nap.


Tuesday, November 21, 2006

ThePeach Has a Gong-Show of a Weekend

This weekend was hilarious. Parts were amazing, parts were hysterical, and parts were a swift punch to the box courtesy of the old “vulva 1-2”. It was exactly what I needed…minus the punches to the box.


I skipped work. TheBoss is in Africa. I’m not sure if he licked a frog there or what, but I’d gotten some…um….touchy-feely emails from him over the week. Such as (and I swear to Lucifer that this is copied word-for-word):

Hi ThePeach,

Great to hear from you buddy... yes I climbed a friggin mountain, I have other pics for later. I also almost got mugged at knife point, please do not tell others, I don't want to worry anyone.

I know that these are hard times for you now, but stay busy, go to church, pray to god for some kind of reason for all of this, and then play "feel" by Robbie Williams and listen. I was just listening to it, can give you a lift! Time will tell if you are doing what is right for you (and that is the most important part of this time).

When I get home I want you to come over the house for a Sunday night dinner with my family, we would like that, I am sorry I have not suggested this earlier...

I might go shark cage diving tomorrow before heading back? But the wife said "No way, are you nuts... no way", so I likely won't. Fun thought though.

Have I told you lately how good it has been having you around? Well it is.

Chow for now.



Ya…what the shit was that? Listen to Robbie Williams? Go to church? I’m not sure if he wants to rape me or convert me anymore. Life was simpler when he just called me fat then looked at me with sex-eyes. Maybe he has Malaria…

So anyway, I spent Friday doing laundry, having lunch with TheHubby, and buying booze and double-sided tape for the weekend that lay ahead. All of my school-friends and I were going to a University reunion-dance in the big city that weekend, and it promised to be fantastically sketch. My goals included looking so hot that I made chicks hate me, being so drunk that I accidentally slipped a nip out of my dress, and touching inappropriate men/touching women inappropriately. It was a hefty challenge, but I was up for it.

I headed for the big city with a suitcase full of wine and a backpack full of hope…and wine. Cleavage’s mommy/daddy gave me a ride most of the way there and I took the Go Train the rest. The ugliest, sketchiest guy ever sat beside me the entire trip on the train. He looked like he should be kept underground in some sort of cage. The entire car was empty, yet he sat beside me. He offered me subway tokens, club passes, and his card. Why do I always attract the mole-people?

When I got to the big city I waited for TheCorporate and WeeOne to pick me up outside the train station. I got completely cleared out of change by the 5 homeless people who asked for money while I waited. I can’t say no to hobos. Neither can TheHubby ;)

I was driven to QueenB’s apartment where QueenB, TheHippie, Workahol, and TurkishDelight were bombed off their asses. I was immediately handed a chilled Smirnoff ice. Life was perfect. 10 minutes later I was talking in the throaty voice and saying inappropriate and shocking things to my friends. I love the drink. We talked about boys (ThePeach’s Heart: AAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH) and Workahol mentioned that she was interested in a boy who was so hot that he looked like he could be in a Sears Catalogue.

A Sears catalogue. Strange that is where her mind went. Sears. Last time I flipped through a catalogue, the only criteria the models had to meet was to have all their limbs. And some of them wear long pants, so they could be hiding peg-legs. Sears…do you think he’s hot enough to ride the mower in the “gardening” section, or maybe he just sits awkwardly on a sofa in the “home” section?


I woke up feeling like yesterday’s whore, as usual. I was sharing a bed with TheCorporate, but I had to promise her that I wouldn’t try to spoon her first. Frigid prude. Everyone needs some Peach love from time to time…she just doesn’t know it yet.

We went to brunch and then shopped downtown. We went back to QueenB’s apartment to rest before we had to start prepping ourselves for a night of drunken whoring. And then, the phone rang…

TheHippie: Hello?
TheHubby’sSis: Is this TheHippie?
TheHubby’sSis: This is TheHubby’sSis. I just got a collect call from TheHubby, who is on the other line. He’s totally bombed and lost downtown in the big city. He forgets your address and your phone numbers. He doesn’t have a cell. He is wandering the streets trying to find you guys, dragging a suitcase behind him.
QueenB: Tell him that we’ll come find him! Where the fuck is he?
TheHubby’sSis: TheHubby, look around you. What intersection are you closest to?
QueenB: Tell him not to move. We’re coming to find him.

Before we got in the car, we map-quested the intersection he had given us. Not only did the intersection not exist, but the streets he had named (which run parallel to each other) were nowhere fucking near us. And we had no way to reach him. How in the name of sweet gentle Christ had he ended up there? Where the fuck was he? How the fuck would we find him? The only thing we didn’t question was his being shit-faced at 3pm, because that was the one thing that made total sense.

QueenB, TheHippie and I roamed the streets of the big city in TheHippie’s car for the next hour, searching for TheHubby. Do you know how many fucking people there are in the big city on a Saturday afternoon? It was not an easy task to locate him, but we finally spotted him – surly and drunk – sitting on his suitcase on a street corner. We took him to TheCorporate’s apartment. Crisis averted. Time for drinky.

We got dressed. We got bombed. We ordered HoLee Chow’s. I taped my tits into my dress. We cabbed to the dance. And then…karma.

In the 5 years that I have known TheHippie, she has never once not been able to hold her drink. She drinks men twice her size under the table. She is a teeny Irish bundle of pure alcoholic energy. She has taken care of me when I have a) thrown up on bathroom walls, b) thrown up out of the open door of a moving cab, c) passed out in her hotel bathroom, forcing her to pee with me curled up around the toilet. I’m hot.

The night of the dance, I had proclaimed it to be my fabulous trampage coming-out party. That would be the night I no longer got the sads! I would make out with mens! And womens! And be hot and fabulous and maybe take home a rich alumni!

Karma deemed it to be the first night in 5 years that TheHippie couldn’t hold her drink and thus vom’d on my legs.

Oh, TheHippie – I love you so. And I do not hold it against you that you vom’d on my legs on the night of my coming-out party. But brace yourself, because I am now going to recount the details of your drunkenness in embarrassing detail.

About an hour after we got to the dance, TheHippie started getting tippy. Not tipsy – tippy. She literally started falling over. In my brilliance, I decided that some food would sober her up a bit. So I fetched her a plate full of desserts from the buffet. 5 minutes later TheHippie’s face was covered in chocolate and she had smeared chocolate hand-prints all over some guy that she hugged. The girl was seriously up to her elbows in chocolate. I’m not sure how she managed it.

I took her to the bathroom to wash up, and she dunked her head in the sink and then passed out in the chair in the powder room. I couldn’t get her to move. TheCorporate and AsianCymbals came in to check on us and also tried to rouse TheHippie to no avail.

ThePeach: TheHippie…get up. You need to get up or we’re going to get kicked out.
TheHippie: ….give…give…me a minute *smack*
TheCorporate: Do you need to go home?
TheHippie:…give…give me a minute *sigh*
AsianCymbals: Sweetie…you really need to get up now.
TheHippie:…give…give…me a minute *loses control of neck, hits head on counter*
Security: She’s so out of here. Now.
TheHippie:…give…give me a minute *slides out of chair*

Well, she’d been officially kicked out. And as her life-partner, it was my role to go with her. I sent AsianCymbals to get TheHippie’s coat. While my back was turned, TheHippie stumbled into a bathroom stall, locked the door, and passed out on the floor beside the toilet. Awesome.

I was *this* close to having to slide under the door on my knockers, but luckily AsianCymbals’ yelling snapped TheHippie into reality long enough to unlock the door and let me pick her up and put her in her coat. As we were heading out, AsianCymbals gave us a plastic bag in case TheHippie vom’d. I laughed:

ThePeach: Ha! TheHippie has never thrown up in her entire life. Seriously, we don’t need that. She will not be puking. I promise.
AsianCymbals:…ya…take it anyway.

TheHippie and I got driven home by TheCorporate and her room-mate. She nuzzled in my shoulder like a good little drunky. TheCoroporate and her room-mate went to park the car and I took TheHippie into the apartment building. I propped her up in the elevator…

ThePeach: We’re almost there, babe. Just hang on a few more minutes.
Elevator: *floor 1*
TheHippie: uuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhh
ThePeach: Are you ok?
Elevator: *floor 5*
TheHippie: *starts heaving*
ThePeach: Ok hottie, just hang on a few more minutes. Don’t puke. Not in the elevator. We’re so close.
Elevator: *floor 10*
TheHippie: *violent vomit onto ThePeach’s legs*
ThePeach: OH GOD!!!
Elevator: *floor 12*
TheHippie: “violent vomit onto ThePeach’s feet*
ThePeach: OH GOD STOP!!!
Elevator: *floor 15*
TheHippie: *violent vomit all over the elevator floor and walls*
Elevator: *floor 18*
TheHippie: *violent vomit onto self*
Elevator: *floor 20, doors open*

Ya…karma literally vomited on me. Well, I dragged TheHippie into the apartment. It was more like I sprinted down the hall while dragging her behind me. She left a trail of vom in the hall which I would later clean up with paper towels and vinegar. I got her into the bathroom and eventually she stopped the vom-train. She wanted to be left alone, understandably. I went into the hall to start dabbing at the vom when I heard a loud *BANG*! I ran back into the bathroom to find TheHippie passed out in the bathtub, legs open, sans panties.

I don’t know if we’re non-sexual life partners anymore…

I got her into bed and spooned with her until she passed out. I was happy to finally have someone who appreciated my spooning, even if she was unconscious with dried vomit in her hair.


Ate greasy eggs, drove home, went to the bar with TigerCat and CockDoc. Got bombed. Told them my pitiful tale of karma gone wrong.

And then, later…


And no crying this time, ha.

Karma didn’t hate me!!! It was just waiting until Sunday!

Because I am a classy whore, I won’t say who it was. But I will say this: it was good. Great, in fact. And I will be calling for more. Because I have woken up the beast and now it needs to be fed.

Let the trampage begin!


ThePilot Disses ThePeach; ThePeach Forgives But Doesn’t Forget

You all remember my good friend ThePilot. We’ve been friends/jaded soulmates since high school. We’re going to get married some day. Our friendship is based on eternal love for each other and eternal hatred of most other members of the populace. And also on Kraft Dinner and TNG. He lives far away, but we bitch to each other daily via msn. We share everything, no matter how horrifying the details:

ThePeach: Last night I had the kinkiest sex. It was awesome. I’m such a trampy whore.
ThePilot: You are a whore. I had awesome sex last night, too!
ThePeach: Was it administered yourself?
ThePilot: What the fuck do you think?
ThePeach: That’s hot.


ThePeach: ThePilot, I hate my shitty life. I want to curl up in a ball and die in a ditch somewhere. And nobody gets me. *sob*
ThePilot: Are you sad because LOST was put on hiatus until February?
ThePeach: *sob* You always understand.
ThePilot: Here’s a picture of a kitten.
ThePeach: I love you.
ThePilot: What?
ThePeach: Nothing.

My main role in ThePilot’s life is to be his woman-coach. You see, ThePilot has problems with the ladies. For as long as I’ve known him, he falls into the same trap: he meets a sexy lady, falls in love with her, doesn’t tell her, becomes her best friend, and he becomes the person she tells the details of her sex life to while he dies on the inside. This is how we became friends, actually.

It's not that ThePilot isn’t hawt – he is. But he’s the friend. He’s always been the friend. And the friend doesn’t get vagina.

The devastating result of this is a 24-year old virgin. And I have done my fucking best to change this throughout the years, trust me. I have given him step-by-step sexual instructions:

ThePeach: ..and then, you move your tongue in a counter-clockwise motion. She’ll be your sex-slave if you do it right.
ThePilot: Um, I haven’t even talked to this girl yet.
ThePeach: That is not my problem.

I have detailed the behaviours he should present on a date:

ThePeach: Pick up the bill. Hold her hand on the way home. Walk her to her door and kiss her lightly on the lips.
ThePilot: Ok…I can try that.
ThePilot: *sweats*

I have coached him through handfuls of blonde bitches that he falls in love with:

ThePeach: You need to just tell her that you like her.
ThePilot: Before or after I go shopping with her to help her pick out lingerie for her date tonight?
ThePeach: …Jesus Christ we lost her.
ThePilot: *sob*

Basically, I have been privy to every non-sordid detail of ThePilot’s love-life for the past 6 years. And then, yesterday he shattered my world:

ThePilot: So, are you less sad about getting dumped?
ThePeach: Sensitive, ThePilot. Thanks.
ThePilot: No seriously, are you less of a cry-hole?
ThePeach: Fuck you. And yes, yes I am.
ThePilot: Ok good, because I have to tell you something. And you’re going to be mad.
ThePeach: Bring it.
ThePilot: I’m seeing someone.
ThePeach: WHAT??!
ThePilot: I have been for the past month.
ThePeach: WHHHHAAAAAT???!!!
ThePilot: And we have sex. Real sex. Intercourse.
ThePeach: *brain explodes*

THAT MOTHERFUCKER!!! I am his fucking vagina-coach and he was getting laid for an entire month and didn’t tell me!!! There were so many conflicting feelings…anger, sadness, pride, joy…how do I sort through these?

To be fair, ThePilot was trying (in the special way that only ThePilot can) to protect me. He hooked up with this chick the same day that FauxHawk shattered my heart, and wanted to wait to tell me about her until I was less upset. In his special reetee way, ThePilot’s LIES TO ME were very sweet and loving.


I am PISSED that he withheld this information for an entire month!! I always thought that, when ThePilot lost his virginity, I would be waiting for him at home in a room full of balloons, holding a video-camera and cutting into a cake topped with a giant vag made out of icing. It only seems right to blame FauxHawk for my anger. If he hadn’t have dumped me, ThePilot wouldn’t have LIED for an entire month to protect my shredded heart. It’s actually really convenient to have a scapegoat like FauxHawk. I also blame him for that time I burnt my dinner and last week when the kitten ate his way through the bathroom wall and got his head stuck between some pipes (I live in a fucking shanty).

I would hope that the next time ThePilot reaches a sexual milestone that I will be the first to know. If he ever does anal/a 3-some/S&M I expect him to pick up his cell phone and call me before he’s even fully withdrawn.

I think he owes me that much.


Sunday, November 12, 2006

ThePeach Falls Off The Wagon; Kills Nuns and Orphans

Oh holy jesus. This weekend has been a train-wreck. You know how proud I was of being the super-ex-gf and not doing anything ridiculous/slutty/dignity-stealing? Well, one month of hard work got blown to shit in a mere evening. It got blown to shit so hard that the air still smells of feces.

When I fall off the wagon, I do it with flair: Peach-style. Let’s re-cap my evening and see if we can pinpoint where things went wrong:

*warning to TheNurse: you are not going to like this post. Please don’t fly back here to slap me in the mouth. You’ll go broke and then how will you be able to afford to buy my x-mas presents? Please remember as you read this that I am wounded.

1. Went to a party thrown by Cock-Doc, one of FauxHawk’s friends. Yes, it was awkward. But he is banging my sister so I felt the need to wish him a happy birthday? There are social laws at work, here!!
Behaviour Rating: Acceptable

2. Got shit-bombed in a very short period of time.
Behaviour Rating: Totally understandable.

3. Left at 10pm so as to not run into FauxHawk.
Behaviour Rating: Wise and Excellent

4. Got home at 10pm, shit-bombed and sad. Decided I needed to take my hot ass out. Called an old friend.
Behaviour Rating: Social and Acceptable.

5. Went to the bar. Got fucking wrecked. WRECKED. Knocked several glasses onto the floor in my drunken rage. No one noticed. It was a dank bar.
Behaviour Rating: Totally Reasonable Considering

6. Talked to TheBartender. He gave me a free shot. I gave him my number. It seemed like a fair trade-off.
Behaviour Rating: Ballsy and Social. Well done.

7. Told the old friend I wanted to go touch some whores. We go to the skeezy strip club. I make us sit in perv row. I decline to get on stage, despite the fact that I am so drunk that I can hardly see the strippers’ track marks. I do not want the syph. An old man comes and sit beside me and starts touching my shoulder. We leave. (Me and the old friend, not me and the old man).
Behaviour Rating: Getting Sketch, but still making reasonable choices. Like not catching the Syph.

8. The old friend and I go back to my apartment. I am so drunk that I can hardly walk. He tells me I am hot. He jumps me. I figure “why the hell not?” and let him jump me a little.
Behaviour Rating: Perhaps a little premature and totally drunk, but Acceptable.

9. OH HOLY JESUS. Recall that the old friend is fucking MARRIED. MARRIED. Also, he has a BABY.
Behaviour Rating: BAD!!! BAD!!! ABORT!! ABORT!!!!! What the holy fuck, Peach?? You are NOT that desperate!! You are, however, a dirty dirty homewrecker. And a slut.

10. Start sobbing like a baby while the old friend tries to do me. I stop him. Or the bawling stops him. He misinterprets the bawling and tells me “don’t worry, I cheat on my wife all the time. I even slept with someone else 4 days before my wedding!”. Oh ya, that comforts me. I bawl harder, with an uncontrollable drunken sadness.
Behaviour Rating: Crying, Peach? Crying while making out with someone? Your worst nightmare has COME TRUE. Not only is he married but you are CRYING. This is a train-wreck, woman. The kind you can’t peel your eyes from. Two trains have crashed into each other and passengers are dying all over the place and you just can’t stop staring!!!

11. The old friend asks me what the fuck is wrong. I bawl out the words “I-I-I miss F-F-FauxHawk!!!”
Behaviour Rating: The two trains just exploded. All remaining survivors are slowly burning to the death.

12. The old friends asks me “so, you still want to screw?”. I say “no” and tell him to leave. He leaves. I am still sobbing.
Behaviour Rating: Redeeming? A glimmer or morality? No, but close.

13. Here’s a good idea: I am drunk beyond drunk. I am crying uncontrollably. It is ugly, ugly, ugly. It is 4am. Why don’t I just e-mail FauxHawk and tell him that I hate him for hurting me? In a drawn-out, drunk-girl, rambling insane email?
Behaviour Rating: A commercial airplane that was passing over-head just inexplicably crashed into the train wreck. The fucking plane just fell straight out of the sky and landed on the debris and dead passengers. Then the plane exploded and all of the passengers died. The passengers were orphans and nuns.

Like I said, when I fall off the wagon I do it with flair. A month of excellent post-breakup behaviour just got completely nullified in one explosion of a night. They should give out trophies for the worst-possible post-breakup behaviour to occur in a single night. I would win. They would name the contest after me.

I can never leave the house again. EVER. Except for when I steal away in the dead of night to move to Mexico. Go ahead and judge me – you should! But in my defense I was shit-bombed beyond words (and, apparently, thought) and my heart has recently been ripped out. I thought about whether or not to post this and decided to go for it. ThePeach is human. ThePeach makes poor, poor choices when drunk and heartbroken. ThePeach is a train-wreck that kills nuns and orphans.

I am no breakup super-hero. I am totally fucked.

Also, when I woke up the next day at 2pm and stumbled into my kitchen for advil, I walked face-first into the wall. I clocked my brain good. I may have attained a minor concussion. I cried.

Life is comically complicated.


Friday, November 10, 2006

I Know I Should Skewer The Little Fucker

But how can you not love the reetee?? Little guy!!

How come every man I love pisses all over my life?


Wednesday, November 08, 2006

ThePeach Paint-Rages; Gets Kicked in Box by Karma

I need sleep. I am so fucking sleep-deprived. I’m back on the sweet teat of gravol but it’s doing nothing. Nothing! I feel like the night of the living dead. Argh.

Why can’t I sleep? 2 reasons: 1) Rage, 2) Mice.

Let’s start with 1) Rage.

I’ve hit the rage-stage of my breakup. It’s much more fun than being a weepy, whiny shit. Except that, instead of being gently rocked to sleep by my pathetic sobbing, I now toss and turn all night as I rage about FauxHawk. And my tossing and turning seriously excites the kitten, who likes to sleep on my stomach. All in all, it’s fucking chaotic:

ThePeach’s Brain: MotherfuckerselfishbastardmotherfuckerMOTHERFUCKER!
ThePeach: *toss*
Milo: zzzzzWHAT THE FUCK?
ThePeach’s Brain: MotherfuckerneverappreciatedmemotherfuckerMOTHERFUCKER!
ThePeach: *turn*
Milo: A GAME!!! *starts jumping spastically on my face*
ThePeach’s Brain: Motherfuckercan’tbelieveIputupwithhisshitmotherfuckerMOTHERFUCKER!
ThePeach: *toss*
Milo: I WANNA PLAY, TOO!!! *runs to kitchen to grab toy; knocks over lamp on his way. Jumps onto my torso with stuffed mouse in mouth. Starts throwing the mouse in the air and attacking it on my shifting torso* YA, MULLAFUCKAH!!!

So ya, I haven’t been sleeping much. On Sunday, I decided I needed a project in which to channel my rage. I chose painting my apartment. On my way back from Ottawa, I made my family stop at CrappyTire so I could select and purchase paint and painting supplies. I carefully pored over paint chips, weighing the pros and cons of each possible colour. Would this colour make mens want to have sex with me? Would this colour make me look hot when I’m lying naked on my bed seducing mens? Would this colour be cheap?

And then…

TigerCat: Ok…*look of fear in her eyes, as if she’s addressing someone who is minutes away from throwing her own feces in rage*…I don’t want to alarm you, but we need to leave CrappyTire. Now.
ThePeach: Why? I haven’t selected the perfect colour for my bedroom yet.
TigerCat: …ok…FauxHawk is here.
ThePeach: …sorry?
TigerCat: He is here. In CrappyTire. Right now.
TigerCat: I just talked to him. He’s buying a plunger.
ThePeach: *heh*…but…oh god…no…
TigerCat: Sorry.
ThePeach: I…just…puked…in…my…mouth.
TigerCat: Ok, let’s get you home.
ThePeach: NO!!! I need to paint, damnit!!! It’s all I have!!! ALL I HAVE!!!! *tears in eyes*
TigerCat: But you haven’t even picked a colour yet.
ThePeach: *picks at random from wall of chips* Any colour works. ANY FUCKING COLOUR WORKS!! *turns to crusty sales lady* MIX THIS COLOUR NOW!!!

So ya, I didn’t put the time and effort into selecting a colour that I would have liked. My bedroom is now bright, bright pink. Like vom-inducing pink. I feel like I live on the inside of a stomach. But it’s…different? And when I bring mens home I’ll just keep the lights off. And kick them out before morning.

On a side note, I am a bad painter. I am neither patient nor meticulous. Parts of my carpet are pink. Parts of my ceiling are pink. A pair of jeans that got in the fucking way are pink. There is a set of teeny pink paw-prints on my living room floor. Thank god I rent.

So, I got the paint-rage out of my system. I also crippled myself in the process. Painting hurts my body.

2) Mice…and karma.

The night of the painting, I was up all night tossing and turning in my vom-pink room listening to Milo chase mice. Between the mice and the smell of kitten-urine, I live in a fucking barn.

I wanted Milo to learn to be a good hunter, so I didn’t stop him from his stalking. But this meant I was up all night listening to him knocking shit over while he chased a mouse throughout my house. At one point, I got out of bed to see what the fuck was going on. I found Milo playfully following a mouse across the living-room floor. Just following him. Not attempting to catch or kill him…just following him. Like a ‘tard following a shiny piece of plastic blowing down the street.

The next night, I talked to my mom on the phone about what a useless kitten Milo is. I described in detail how he followed the mouse all night but didn’t attempt to catch or kill it. I used the sentence “he’s a lover, not a killer”. I groaned about how I had the only fucking cat in the world who didn’t catch mice. I called him retarded. The gods were listening.

As I tossed and turned in bed later that night, I could hear Milo knocking shit down in my kitchen. Fucking retarded cat. At some blessed point, I stopped raging long enough to fall into a fitful sleep.

I awoke to Milo jumping on my stomach like a spastic demon. He was purring with gusto. He wouldn’t get off me or shut his purr-hole. I opened my eyes. It was 4:30 am. The morning light was just starting to peek through my window and by the glare of my disgustingly pink walls I saw what was causing my retarded kitten’s excitement:

The dead mouse he had deposited on my chest.

OHHHHHHH MOTHERFUCKER!!!! Oh god oh god oh god. I have never flown out of bed so fast in my life. I did a spastic, girly freak-out dance and threw off my pjs with a speed I didn’t know I had in me. The mouse corpse flew off my body and onto the floor. Milo flew off the bed and onto the corpse, where he batted it around and continued to purr proudly. Swearing and sweating, I grabbed a garbage bag and lifted the mouse corpse by the tail and dropped it into the bag with a wee thud. I tied the bag in a triple knot in case it came back to life or something. Because it was 4:30 am and because I was naked, I placed the garbage bag in my hallway by the door instead of taking it to the curb. I then made a grave, rookie mistake: I gave Milo two treats. As much as I was fucking flipping out from his “gift”, I wanted to encourage him to catch more mice in the future. Plus he was so damned proud! It would have been cute if it weren’t inconceivably horrifying.

I scrubbed my hands with disenfectant soap. I put on new pjs and got back into bed. I fell back asleep. Or I was in shock, whatever.

Milo misinterpreted the point of the treats. As I was sleeping, he ate his way through the garbage bag. He picked up the dead mouse in his retarded little mouth. He carried it back to my bed…


This time, I woke up the second I felt the thud of the tiny mouse-corpse land on me. This time, Milo dropped it on my bare shoulder. My eyes flew open. I looked at Milo jumping proudly and excitedly on my stomach, purring like a maniac. I looked at my shoulder…


I threw myself out of bed again, this time semi-flipping myself off the back of the bed and hurling the mouse-corpse against the wall with a massive fling of my shoulder. I had my pj top off before I or the corpse hit the ground. Milo dove behind the bed to fetch my gift. I squealed and hopped around my room in panic. I put on new pjs. I grabbed another garbage bag and pried the mouse-corpse out of my retarded kitten’s paws. I dropped it into the garbage bag. I took the garbage bag to the curb outside. It was 6:30am.

When I got back inside, Milo was seriously PISSED. Not only did I not reward him for his hunting skills, but I had thrown his gift to me away. He had the crazy-tail going on. His ears pointed straight back. He was walking in circles by the door, making pissed off grunts (ya, my kitten grunts. He's charming. Possibly possesed). I went to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands, shoulder, and rack with disinfecting soap. When I came back out, I found a puddle of warm urine on my futon.

Fucker really loves to express himself.

So, I think it’s safe to say that Karma kicked me swiftly in the box.

And this is why I have been having trouble sleeping.


Sunday, November 05, 2006

ThePeach Goes to Her Grandpa's 80th Birthday Party

Oh, this weekend was a real treat. Any weekend that involves the gathering of my family usually is. This weekend happened to be my grandfather’s 80th birthday, and we all traveled to Ottawa to be with him. The night before I was due to be picked up, my plan was to do laundry, pack, and go to bed early so I would be rested and ready to face 48 consecutive hours of my mother without punching her in the ovary. TheHippie’s boyfriend, who has been named “TheCrip” (is it because he’s in a gang, or because he’s a cripple? Ooooh suspenseful!), was trying to pimp me out to his friends that night but I decided to stay in. Not that I don’t fully appreciate TheCrip’s enthusiastic response to my request to start whoring me out, but this was what I was presented with:

TheCrip: I found you someone to fuck. He plays rugby with me and is hot, athletic, and tall. He’ll probably slap you around in bed.
ThePeach: Yes! Yes!
TheCrip: So, come out tonight and meet him. Then fuck him.
ThePeach: Sure! Hey, do you have a picture of my new lover?
TheCrip: Here, check out his facebook.
ThePeach: ok *reads profile*…um, TheCrip? Is my new lover 19 years old?
ThePeach: This profile says he was born in 1987.
TheCrip:…that’s a typo.
TheCrip: NO! Well…yes.
ThePeach: Has he even HAD sex before??
TheCrip: Probably!
ThePeach: Ya, I’m out. Message me when you find me someone who doesn’t need 2 condoms and a manual.

At 9pm, TheHubby and Cleavage msn’d me to see if they could come watch tv with me. Why not? A quiet night of trashy tv wouldn’t get in the way of my productivity. So I said “hell ya, get your hot asses over here!”

They showed up with the following:
1. A bag of chips.
2. A brick of cheese.
3. A bag of candy.
4. A fat, fat joint.

I didn’t do laundry or pack or go to bed before 3am, but I did watch “She’s All That”, cry during ER (“oh my god, it’s so horrible when people die on tv”), find topless pics of TheHubby’s ex-gf on the internet (“oh my god, I hope she has back-ne!!”), get some gentle Cleavage lovin’, and eat my weight in salty treats. It wasn’t the night I had expected, but it was more than I ever could have hoped for.

Of course, I was fucked the next morning. My sleep-deprived, gravol-craving body wanted to sleep until 3pm thanks to the pot, but I had to wake up at 9 and get ready for the last thing anybody wants to deal with during a pot hangover: my mother. No, not your mother. My mother. I’m sure your mother would at least shut up when she noticed you grimacing in pain at the volume of her voice. My mother coos affectionately at my ‘headache’ and then rambles on for the next 2 hours about her own medical problems, such as her “depressive episodes” and “anxiety” and “hives”. The only thing that shuts her up is a punch to the ovary.

The Pre-Party

We arrived in Ottawa and went to the party my mom had organized for my grandpa. It was in a restaurant that caters to senior citizens. It had a band that played love songs from the 1920s-1950s, waiters who spoke LOUDLY and CLLLLEEEEAAAARRRRLLLLYYY, and bland, mushy food. I should mention that, before he broke up with me, FauxHawk had been trying to get time off to come to the party. He was supposed to save me from the old people and laugh at their senility with me. So, I was feeling a little shit-tacular as we were driving to the restaurant. Which was exactly when my understanding mother decided to spring the following conversation on me:

Peach/Tiger Mom: So, I want you to make a speech tonight, Peach.
ThePeach: WHAT?!
Peach/Tiger Mom: Your grandpa will really appreciate it. Just give a speech to everyone before dinner. You don’t have to do it. No one will force you…but you know how much your grandpa loves you, and how much he does for you, and he is getting old and might die soon…
ThePeach: I hate you. I really, really do.
Peach/Tiger Mom: Oh, and I want both you and TigerCat to dance with your grandpa.
ThePeach: WHAT?! Is there even dancing in the restaurant?
Peach/Tiger Mom: I don’t know, but there will be music. Just get up and dance with him beside the table. You know it will mean the world to him and you might not have many more chances to dance with your grandfather…
ThePeach: I seriously hate you.
Peach/Tiger Mom: And I want you and TigerCat to sit at separate tables tonight so that the guests can get to know you and so you can lead charming conversation.
ThePeach: WHAT?! FUCK, NO. NO. I am putting my foot down. I don’t even know these people and they don’t know me and I just want to talk to TigerCat.
Peach/Tiger Mom: But your grandpa talks about you so much, they all know who you are. He’s so proud of you…
ThePeach: Go to hell. *starts wriggling door handle* Damn these child-proof doors!!! *presses hands up to glass, stares longingly at ditch and freedom*
Peach/Tiger Mom: Oh, and your grandpa has a new girlfriend. She’s black. He also has some mysterious new back injury that he doesn’t want to talk about.
ThePeach: *brain explodes*

My grandpa has a girlfriend. She is black. He has a back injury that he won’t talk about.

Grandpa’s hitting the brown sugar. My brain cannot handle this. Please remember that my grandpa refers to black people as “negroes”. Maybe he makes his new girlfriend hoe the backyard and harvest cotton and he got that back injury from whipping her for speaking disrespectfully. Because that is the only way that this union makes sense in my mind.

The Party

I smile pretty for the old people. I talk loudly and slowly. I answer questions about my “school’in” and lead people to their seats by their bony arms. It is a sea of blue hair, baldness, and the smell of death. I have a glass of wine. And then another. It doesn’t help. I help the old people at my table read their menus. I attempt to lead charming conversations. My mother walks over and whispers to me “now would be a good time to say your speech. Not that you have to do it. Nobody is forcing you, honey. I’m just saying that, if you did decide to give your grandfather the gift of pride and love and a memory that he’ll hold dear until his dying day (which could be soon), now would be the time.” Whore.

TigrCat and I give a speech. It is well-received. I want to shit my pants but am comforted by the thought that most of the guests can't hear me anyway, and those who can think that I’m taking their drink orders. The food arrives and just when I think I can drown my sorrows in a cheap cut of beef:

Grizzled old farmer on my right: So, woman, you must have a boyfriend.
ThePeach: *pleasant laughter* why, no I don’t.
Grizzled old farmer on my right: You’re a’lyin’! A woman as beautiful as you must have a boyfriend!
ThePeach: Nope. No boyfriend.
Grizzled old farmer on my right: Stop lyin’ to me, woman! A gal like you has boyfriends lining up out the door! *gets attention of table* Folks, this woman here is trying to tell me she doesn’t have a boyfriend!
Table of old people: *gasp* Impossible! How can you not have a boyfriend? Surely you do! *gasp* *shock* How can a girl like you not have a boyfriend?
TigerCat: I have a boyfriend! He’s a doctor!
Table of old people: *appreciative clucks* Now, that’s the kind of boyfriend you should have, Peach.
Grizzled old farmer on my right: So, no boyfriend, eh? You like ponies?
ThePeach: *eyeing the butter knife as a possible weapon of suicide* Sure. Ponies. Ya.
Grizzled old farmer on my right: You should come to my farm someday. I have a pony you could ride, woman. All girls like a pony ride. Even girls without boyfriends.
ThePeach’s Heart: Bitch, I’m out of here. Deal with this shit yourself.
ThePeach: *thumps chest, gasps*
ThePeach’s Heart: Bitch, you got lucky.
Grizzled old farmer on my right: Wow woman, you sure do like cake.

The Post-Party

The good thing about having a party for senior citizens is that everyone leaves by 10pm. We go straight home because my grandpa needs to rest his injured back. *shudder* I am exhausted from my night of pretending to be charming, happy, and sober. I go to bed at 11. I dream about FauxHawk. I wake up briefly to punch myself in the ovary. I go back to sleep and dream about my grandpa hittin’ the brown sugar.

I’m sure she’s a lovely negro.


Wednesday, November 01, 2006

ThePeach Celebrates Her 2-Week Dump-iversary

2 weeks ago today I had my heart broken into a million little pieces and then urinated on. It wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t pretty. Nothing in the world was pretty. I still can’t fucking believe that FauxHawk and I are over – but here it is, 2 weeks later, and I’m still kicking. It’s a weak, crippled leprosy of a little kick, but it’s a fucking kick, damnit.

To celebrate the fact that I’ve kept my shit together for 2 weeks, I had a special little romantic date with myself tonight. Yes, I know how fucking sad that is. Laugh and die. Seriously. Try it. I’ll cut you.

First, I went for an hour-long massage at the spa. Hells ya. This was beautiful on so many levels. There was the level of pain relief: all of the stress of my heartache has manifested itself in my FUCKING SPINAL COLUMN. I’m like a goddamn cripple. But my masseur tenderly worked on my poisoned muscles until I no longer felt the need to steal mass quantities of Vicodin and other assorted opiates from hospitals and homeless people. It was like having multiple orgasms of the spine. Which is probably the best orgasmic activity I can hope for right now, anyway.

There was also the level of touch. I was touched by a human being for the first time in 2 weeks. I hope I don’t have to continue to pay monies to experience the touch of another human, because that’s a slippery slope. And I’m too hot to fuck hookers. Except for Colombian Hookers – they’re worth every peso, used needle, and button that you pay for them.

I was disappointed about one aspect of my massage. I was hoping for some beefy mens to be my masseur, and in my fantasy-riddled mind he would be so turned on by my sexy body that he would take me right there on the kinky massage table. Unfortunately, my masseur was a beefy lesbian. And she turned me down.

After my non-sexual massage, I came home and made myself a big fancy dinner. Fuck ya! I’m a fucking great cook! I actually made the exact same meal for FauxHawk about 4 days before he dumped my ass. But this time I perfected it and I didn’t have to share. So not only did it taste better, but I get to eat leftovers tomorrow. Which is awesome. Because bitch can’t cook every night. Bitch is lazy. Bitch has tv to watch.

So, all-in-all, I’m pretty pleased with myself right now. Ya, I had my heart shredded and I still feel like total shit. But I got through 2 weeks without:

a) calling him/seeing him/stalking him/following him/emailing him. None of my friends had to pry the phone or keyboard out of my hands, even when I was drunk or high or both. Which, you know, is often. I didn’t try to ‘accidentally’ run into him – actually, I did my goddamn best to avoid him as much as possible. Did I want to call him? Fuck yes, every single day. I still want to. Sometimes I accidentally automatically almost call him, but I catch myself and hurl the phone into a vat of acid and sit in a circle of salt holding a cross and muttering Sanskrit. I refuse to be demoted to “less than girlfriend”. I’m better than that shit.

b) Losing my job/friends/failing school. I went to work every day. I did fuck all, but what else is new? I went to (almost) all my classes. And I made friends with the big-headed keeners and sappy male-poets! I still want to rip off my arm and beat them to death with it every time they talk in class, but other than that they’re cool. I didn’t make my old friends break up with me for whining 24/7, because I refuse to whine 24/7. And plus I bribed them with salty treats.

c) Losing my dignity. I didn’t beg him to take me back, I didn’t scream or yell at him when he dumped me, and I don’t plan to attempt to make his life miserable. He can do that all by himself. So ya, I’m pretty sure I’ve kept my dignity intact. Unless he still reads my blog, in which case he probably thinks I’m a crazy crack-whore. But that is no longer my problem!

d) Harassing our mutual friends for information about him. If he’s dating some 19-year-old Jewish girl who thinks she just struck doctor-gold, I don’t want to know. However, any information they ever want to share about how miserable he is would be totally acceptable. Possibly even rewarded with alcohol and purring.

e) Running away/joining a convent/catching the Syph. Universitytown is small and miserable but, damnit, it’s my home too! And, while I refuse to give up mens forever, I’ve managed not to whore myself out to anything with a peepee. By which I mean my only bed-mate is my cat. Who smells like feces and bites my eyelids. AND PEES ON MY FUTON!!! (ya, he did it again. I cried for real. A lot). But hey, it’s only been 2 weeks. I plan to start auditioning mens for a leading role in my one-woman show at some point.

TaDaaaa…I’m a breakup goddess. A miserable goddess who still cries randomly during sad commercials and hasn’t slept at all ever since she tried to taper her gravol dose, but still!

I hereby conclude “The Breakup Diaries”. Bring on “The Bitter/Jaded/Sexy Whore Diaries”. “With less cookie dough and more booze”. “And less crying and more sex”. “Hopefully not just with myself and Colombian hookers”.