Tuesday, December 30, 2008

ThePeach has a run; revelation

Hi Sexies.

I know. I’m behind.

I’ve neglected you.

In a nutshell, here is what has gone on in the past 2 or so weeks: internship, writing, internship, no sleep, internship, COFFEE, 6 cover stories, around 12 clippings, one massive editor-made typo in my lede on the Saturday cover, one homicidal urge, one 8 hour train ride to my mom’s, zero available washrooms during said ride thanks to frozen pipes, one episode of kidney failure, one week in close proximity with mother, ten pounds gained (feels like), one entire giant bottle of chardonnay chugged between me and TigerCat on the couch Christmas day, one loud mentally disturbed person in the seat across from me on the 8 hour train ride home, three grunts emitted from aforementioned crazy, one failed attempt to stand up to editor, zero days off before I have to go back to school.

Ok. You’re caught up.

I had a bad day today. I was only supposed to work for 2 weeks at Universitytown Newspaper, but on my last day before xmas my editor made a subtle suggestion that I should show up on Monday.

ThePeach: Yippee! My last day!
ThePeach: *screams*

So I came back, but I was going to put my foot down. Today would be my last day. Or tomorrow. Maybe Wednesday. But I was definitely not going to work past Thursday, bitches! FOOT! DOWN!


I stammered with fear as I made my suggestion to the editor this morning over a large Starbucks breakfast blend. He didn’t say a word, but just fixed his piercing eyes onto me over his wire-rimmed glasses. The gaze burned. He waited while I gulped and tried to reword.

ThePeach: *sweats* Um, well, I…um…I guess if you’re stuck…I mean…I was going to go back to CapitalCity early and try to get settled before school starts…maybe sleep for the first time this break…but…um…*cries*…I guess….
ThePeach: *screams* ok.

So I guess I’m working another week. Including New Years Day. This could seriously infringe on my plans to drink all the tequila in Universitytown and smoke all the pot IN THE WORLD and then dance in the streets at 4am to the music of my own making.

So, I was upset.

To make matters worse, there is literally no news to report in Universitytown right now, so I spent my day writing community briefs, aka no byline.

I was fuming when I got back to FauxHawk’s. He suggested a run would blow off some steam. I grudgingly squeezed my Christmas-enhanced ass into my new lulus and trudged after the hawk to the gym. I perked up when I got there. Maybe a nice, relaxing run would indeed make life less achingly depressing.

I stripped off my hooded sweatshirt, put my headphones in my wee ears, and pranced onto the nearest treadmill. I turned my head to the right: skinny poptart in designer workout gear. I turned my head to the left:

ThePeach: *SCREAMS!!!*


I just don’t get it. My life is so tragically hilarious, it’s not even funny anymore. It’s predictable. Why shouldn’t my editor be working out on the treadmill RIGHT NEXT TO ME at the EXACT SAME GYM at the EXACT SAME TIME as me? Makes perfect sense.


At first I was shocked. Then scared. Then mad.

And then…something happened. He became just the middle-aged, balding man huffing and sweating on the treadmill next to me. He was just the old man in sweat pants, trying to get into shape by slowly walking hills.

And me? I was the motherfucking fit-ass bitch kicking his treadmill ASS!

Maybe the nice thing would have been to slow my pace out of respect for his obvious struggle with fitness. But I wasn’t feeling nice. I sprinted for 45 minutes, long after his 20 minute walk ended. I pranced along with my ipod, my ponytail bouncing, singing (mentally) to Journey. Don’t stop believin’.

He is my treadmill bitch.

I’m going to pay for it tomorrow.


Monday, December 15, 2008

Sigh; Meow.

Oh christ.

So, remember the day I realized that I dress like the homeless? The day I realized once and for all that god really only put me on this earth to entertain him? The day I realized that my future self might involve pan-handling and all the discount clothes a bitch can wear?

Well, today I had to cover a story at a soup kitchen, and who should I run into but my favourite homeless street-hag/future self? Only in Universitytown is one able to keep in the same social circles as the homeless. She was drunk and dancing around on the sidewalk like a feisty, garbagey-smelling sprite. Of course I interviewed her. I needed, nay, craved to know how my future life would pan out.

ThePeach: So, how long have you been coming to the soup kitchen?
StreetHag: Well, I been pan-ing for gone about 10 years...and I took to the streets in 2006...so...a long time, yas.
ThePeach: And how would you say the current economic crisis has affected your...pan-ing?
StreetHag: Well, I worrys about my cats.
ThePeach: You...have cats?
ThePeach'sBrain: *screams*
StreetHag: Oh yas. I have six cats. I worrys about how I'm gonna feed 'em, what with the economy n' all.
ThePeach: Six...cats?
StreetHag: Oh ya, yas. I started with just one but yous knows how it goes.
ThePeach'sBrain: *screams*

So. She also has cats. Of course she does.

I dress like the homeless and soon I will have a fleet of cats like the homeless.

Future self = not too far off, apparently.

Hold me. Meow.


Sunday, December 14, 2008

ThePeach and Universitytown: Like Gin and my Mouth

Hi, bitches.

It is exactly 1 week since I arrived back in Universitytown, and I have to say that it's going swimmingly. Universitytown and I go together like Britney and cheetohs. Like Gin and my mouth. Like Stephanie Nolen and South Africa (I might rip off your blog, MC, but I will always cite my sources. Heart.).

I'm sorry I haven't had time to update my blarg this week. I have literally been dying of stress and exhaustion, my laptop is still in the crapper, and I tend to pass out as soon as I get home from work. So...ya. Shorry.

But!! Work has been going really well! I really like it at Universitytown newspaper! They work me like an asian child in a boot factory, but I've been told this is what internships are. And luckily for me the paper just had a round of layoffs before I got there, lost about half of their newsroom staff, and yours truly gets to reap the benefits. I have had 8 articles published in my 5 days of work, and 3 of them have been feature cover stories. This isn't so much a reflection of my talent as it is a reflection of the decimated staff at the paper, but hey it works out for me. Clippings! Fame! *or not

But it comes at a price. I show up at 9am (I DO Fauxhawk! Fuck you! There was ONE morning where I was late and Hawk now likes to tell everyone that I don't show up before 10. Bastard). Anyway, I show up at 9. I drink at least 6 cups of coffee throughout my day. If I'm lucky I have time for a cup-o-soup at noon, otherwise I suck down a granola bar at lunch at hope it sustains me. It doesn't. I run all over the city to get interviews and cover events. On Thursday I had 3 events in the same day. I was at the paper until 9pm getting them filed. I go to the bathroom to lean my head against the toilet paper roller and take deep breaths at least twice/day. I read my words out loud as I type them. I'm not the only one. Journalists are a weird bunch. I work through dinner. I answer the angry emails and phone messages that disgruntled readers leave for me. I read the positive comments and weep gently. If I have time, I reheat my coffee. If not, I chug it cold and pray for journalistic brilliance. I file my stories, meet my editor to go through them and see just how many typos I made, and then fix the typos and refile. I stumble home anywhere between 7pm or 9pm. I am fed by TigerCat, otherwise I put on pjs and lie on the couch in a state of delirium until I can no longer stand consciousness.

But I like it. I like being a reporter. Here are some highlights from my week, good and bad.

Fame and Fact Errors

- I had 3 cover stories. I made a major factual error in one of them, received a series of complaints from readers, and had to issue my very first apology in the next paper. I spent most of that day convinced that my career was over and was ready to throw myself in the river. MC and Spaz helped talk me away from the knife drawer. The staff at the news room were sympathetic, bought me multiples coffees, and regaled me with their own tales of woe.

Technology FAIL
- On my second day I tried to file my story without help. I was very proud of myself. I managed to locate the group "For Wednesday" file in the communal e-files. I dragged and dropped my slain cop story into it. I leaned back and awaited my due praise.

ThePeach: *screams*
ThePeach: *screams*

Turns out that I had somehow dragged the "for Wednesday" file into my own personal files, which meant that no one else in the news room could access it. At deadline time, not a single other person in the news room could file their stories, and editors couldn't access the stories that had previously been filed. The IT guy had to be called in to fix it. We're getting to know each other pretty well.

Evil Presents itself as Elmo
- On Tuesday I got sent to do a story at the Zellers. At 7:30pm. I was supposed to wait to do an interview with the president of zellers. At 7:30 I met him and he told me to wait for him by the service counter while he did a tour of the store. This tour took him 90 minutes. The service desk had a "dancing, singing, talking Elmo!" doll turned on for the entire time. After 10 minutes of "Elmo will tell you a story!! Elmo is a monster! Elmo likes to stretch his little legs like THIS!" I was homicidal. After 90 minutes I was delirous. It was like being in Dante's 7th circle of hell. And, after all my waiting, the president literally ran away from me after his tour. Literally ran. I never got my interview.
Fireman Story Does Not go as Hoped
- I had a story about firemen on Friday. Firemen who posed for a fireman calendar. Hello, best story ever?? I wore my sexiest high heels that day and a low cut shirt in preparation for my interview. I pictured myself sauntering around the fire house, a line of beefy firemens following me around like baby ducks, and maybe we could all take turns sliding down the pole. In reality, when I showed up at the firehouse all I saw was a mentally retarded man washing one of the fire trucks with a hose. The fire chief informed me that all of the firemen were away at training that day. I was welcome to interview the mentally retarded guy. I left him to his hose and went back to work, head hung low with disappointment.

Editor Drugs Me
- By the time Friday rolled around I was pretty much dead. As usual, I was working late. All I had consumed that day was 7 cups of coffee and 3 timbits, so at 7pm I wasn't feeling too wonderful. I had a massive, awful headache. My brain was literally splitting. This is a problem when you have to write two more stories before you leave. I got the feeling that this was a common work hazard when my editor walked over and asked me why I was being so slow.

ThePeach: *screams* I'm sorry...I have such a bad headache.
ThePeach: *screams* Ok.

In the office, the editor opened a desk drawer and rummaged through about 10 bottles of pills before he selected one, popped off the lid, and handed me 2 white capsules.

ThePeach: You're offering me...codeine?
ThePeach: *screams, swallows pills*
ThePeach: *screams*

The pills worked beautifully. I wrote my stories, edited them, and skipped to the car when Fauxhawk picked me up. Only in a newsroom would a drawer full of narcs be normal.

Weekends = Gin, Pot, Rape
- After work on Friday I decided I needed to make up for my week of stress and hermit-ing. The night started with a bottle of wine at dinner. Then it progressed to the gin at the bar, the vodka at TheCrazy's house as we sang karaoke, and the intensely strong pot at CockDoc's until 5am. At one point TigerCat changed out of her bar clothes and into a grey sweatsuit. She looked like a hobo. We made fun of her. 5 minutes later she ran out of the bedroom in a hockey jersey and sweatpants and screamed "I IMPROVED!!" TheCrazy and I also wanted to improve. I spent the rest of my night dancing around the house in a pair of man's gym shorts, a jean-shirt, a tie, and a cowboy hat. TheCrazy wore a lumberjack shirt, rugby shorts, one rugby sock, and a pair of control-top pantyhose on her head. At one point we managed to squeeze TheCrazy's entire torso into the pantyhose. We literally pulled them down to about her hips. She had to walk around with one of her arms stuck straight up, and we tore a hole around her mouth so that she could drink. I'm not sure why or how this happened.

TheCrazy took my boobs out. I saw TOP's tits, which are truly tits of power. At 5am FauxHawk took me home, where we ate an entire pizza and then raped each other until sunrise.

That was week 1.


Monday, December 08, 2008

ThePeach is an Intern Now: Day 1

I show up 20 minutes early. I am wearing high heels and dress pants. I have a large stabucks coffee in one hand and a copy of Universitytown newspaper in the other. The obese secretary in the leopard-print pant-suit tells me that my editor isn't here yet. I sit in the lobby and jitter with caffeine-energies.

45 minutes later the editor comes to get me. He is gruff and pompous, just like editors in movies about journalists such as Superman. He even has the thick-rimmed glasses and balding head. He shows me my desk. He gives me my pass-card. He gives me 6 press releases and tells me to turn them into stories. I turn around to ask him how to file stories but he is gone.

I poop my pants a little.

I file my first story. I try to print it but I jam the communal printer. It takes 3 people to figure out how to fix it.

I write my second story. I call my contact - a senior citizen named Myrtle - and she invites me on a senior citizen hike. I politely decline. Why do old people love me? I file my second story. Jam printer.

I locate the coffee cart. Highlight of day.

I locate the women's washroom. Second-most highlight of day.

I almost forget pass-card in bathroom and lock myself in weird hallway. Low-point of day.

I file my third story. It is about charity christmas ornaments. I chuckle as I write the sentence "to order a set of balls, contact the Rotary club..." Heh. Balls.

Realize I am only female reporter. Vow to be professional and competent and not fall back on feminine stereotypes.

Jam printer again. Fail.

File fourth story.

ThePeach: Um.
ThePeach: *sweats*
ThePeach: I...don't...I...me...gin?
ThePeach: *poops*

File fifth story. Succesfully use printer. Victory for feminism!

Editor walks in as I apply lip gloss. Setback for feminism.

File sixth story. Exhale for first time in 8 hours. Meet editor to edit stories.

ThePeach: Um.
ThePeach: Tuesdays?
ThePeach: *screams*

Finally leave buiding at 7:30. Get lost trying to find the exit. Accidentally go through emergency exit and walk into a snow-covered field, facing a lake, behind the building. Door is locked behind me. Treck through shin-deep snow in high heels. Curse world.


Sunday, December 07, 2008

Return to Universitytown: Part 1

Hi kids.

You have 1 day left to vote: http://cdnba.wordpress.com/vote-2008/best-personal-blog/

I've been back in Universitytown for 11 hours and I'm already fucking gunned. I love this city.

I start my internship at Universitytown newspaper on Monday, so I left CapitalCity and my darlings Spaz and MC early so that I could start my fucking job. It was very traumatizing to cut the cord and leave all of my j-school bitches behind. I might have cried in the street when I said goodbye to MC, and I may or may not have smelled Spaz's hair when we hugged goodbye for a month. A month!!

But. But! Universitytown is fun. I rolled in at 1pm. I hadn't slept in 3 days. I had been wearing the same clothes for 5 days. I hadn't eaten a real meal in a week. I'm not kidding. Yesterday I ate the following: a piece of bread (donated by MC), 4 cups of coffee, and half of a starbucks zesty turkey sandwich. I couldn't afford the whole thing, so I split it with TerribleInfluence.

In the 11 hours that I have been in Universitytown, I have done the following:
- been fed a real meal by TigerCat
- been invited for fancy "happy new job" dinner by TigerCat
- been lent a functioning laptop by TigerCat
- worked for 4 hours on take-home law exam (ew)
- consumed a vegetable
- slept for 45 minutes
- bathed my person
- put on real pants
- consumed 3 gins
- consumed 2 free rounds of shots courtesy of bar manager friend
- been offered free NHL tickets by bar manager friend
- consumed nacho serving the size of a beluga

And now I am going to saunter my drunk, nachoed ass into the boudoire and attempt to rape FauxHawk. My sexy "too welfare to eat" body should help that mission. So will the plaid thong.

Wish me luck.


Friday, December 05, 2008

Update: Library is Scary at Night

I'm still here. It's awful.

TerribleInfluence left about half an hour ago and now I'm on my own. I moved upstairs to "the learning commons," or the holding area for cracked-out students. I'm surrounded by weepy, crazy, caffeine-addicted youths like myself. It's like I stumbled into the netherworld. I don't like it.

At 11:30 I decided I needed dinner. I asked the chick at the circulation desk where I should go to find sustenance. She told me the only thing open was the basement, and that I would have my choice of several fine vending machines. Dinner became a bag of Miss Vickie's and a Rock Star. Shit-fuck.

There's a female janitor milling around, cleaning up other empty chip bags and abandoned energy drink cans. Someone is sleeping in the desk next to me. A black man just turned a pirouette behind me. I'm not sure why. This place is weird. I'm really glad I brought my ipod.

I have so much work left to do. The library closes at 2am and then I'm computerless again. I'll probably wind up wandering the campus in a caffeine stupor and wake up at 3pm tomorrow afternoon in a dumpster.

Interesting: the female janitor just tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I had anything that I needed to throw out. I lowered my head in shame and pushed 2 empty coffee cups, a chip bag, and an empty rock-star towards her. She patted my shoulder and smiled sympathetically. Maybe this place isn't so bad.

Come back, female janitor with bad perm! I need you to hold me.


Thursday, December 04, 2008

Suicide Mission

Hi kids.

I don't have much time to update tonight. I'm busy having a nervous breakdown.

I'm just finishing off my first term of Journalism grad school, I have to complete two massive essays by tomorrow, I move back to UniversityTown Saturday morning - for a month! - because I start my apprenticeship at UniversityTown Newspaper on Monday, I haven't packed yet, I don't actually own any appropriate office-wear clothing, I haven't figured out how to pay my January rent yet, I'm out of food and all I've eaten today is a lean cuisine frozen pizza, I'm now officially completely nocturnal, and - pleasant surprise! - my laptop just officially off'd itself.

Seriously. It's dead. Moved on to laptop heaven. Or maybe hell, since it was full of lesbian porn. Right before it died it flashed that it now had 460 Trojan viruses - that's a lot of STDs, man. I'd kill myself, too. Anyway, it flashed the 460 viruses, was inundated with popups for about 4 hours, and then turned off and I haven't been able to revive it. I even gave it CPR. If I had a set of defib paddles I'd try those, too. I think the problem is that the laptop wants to be dead. You can't help something that doesn't want to be helped.

Anyway, I spent about 2 hours trying to revive the fucker before I declared it deceased and let go of its spirit so that it wouldn't haunt me with its unfinished business. I had a little cry fit over the 2 days of work I just lost, considered throwing myself in the river, but decided that I couldn't deprive the world of my new bangs. So I put on pants and left my apartment to face the world.

I'm currently using a loaner laptop in the library with TerribleInfluence. Although he might not be so terrible since he talked me off the bridge and bought me a large starbucks coffee, and is now supervising me to make sure I get my work done. He might be mad if he knew I was using the last remaining hour of my laptop loan to update my blog, but from across the table it just looks like I'm carefully typing my essay. I even have my book open on my lap. Maybe I'm the terrible influence. Life is a mystery.

Back to work. I promise to steer clear of the knife drawer.


Wednesday, December 03, 2008

She Bangs, She Bangs

This is what my head looks like now.
Am I a freak? Should I invest in some kind of knitted hat until they grow out? Or should I embrace my inner-emo? Start wearing lots of black eyeliner, pout a lot, and take a sculpting class to direct my inner angst into art? Cut myself? Keep a diary? Help me decide.

By the way, I'm not naked. There are tank top straps hidden under that mane.
On the bright side, I never have to pluck my eyebrows again.

Unibrow, here I come.

ps - vote for your favourite crazy whore - now with bangs: http://cdnba.wordpress.com/vote-2008/best-personal-blog/

TheHippie Contemplates Major Life Decisions; To Whore or to Mate?

Dear friends and strangers,

I’m not the best writer, but ThePeach has allowed me to guest blog because I need some serious help. I’m sucky at making decisions, so instead I’m going to let you all vote on my major life decision. I promise to abide by your democratic vote.

Lately being all grown up is on my mind. I’m starting a job that won’t involve me procrastinating all day in sweats and then madly write reports til 4 am. My mom is pushing the idea of me buying a house since I’m working while the rest of Canada is going bankrupt. I now listen to the CBC regularly.

My friends are also growing up. Sure, they have jobs and responsibilities and RRSPs, but mostly I’m noticing that they’re all in love. QueenB is nesting with her boyfriend. Tallfriend casually asked me what kind of bridesmaid’s dresses I like. Cleavage and TheCorporate have flown across the ocean to be with their significant others. So when I’m with my wonderful friends I think wow, I’m so happy my friends are happy! I love love! Growing up is awesome! Maybe I should look for a boyfriend so I can be as happy! Then I go straight back to wearing sweatpants and stained shirts in public. Unless of course I’m at the bar, where I sport the biggest push up bra and low cut shirt.

Last Saturday I was listening to Quirks and Quarks on the CBC while patiently waiting for my favourite program, The National Time Check, when something caught my attention. I immediately panicked and went straight to Google to find the most reliable source of information on this subject. A rip off version of ‘The View’ of course.


So basically birth control is making me less attractive to guys in general ‘cause I’m fake preggers, and its also making me want to fuck guys that are similar to my relatives. And then I’ll marry said guy. And then I’m going to have sickly little MiniHippies with reduced immune systems. WHAT THE FUCK. If you’ve ever met me even once I’m sure you’ve heard my rant on how I’m going to force feed my children dirt and never wash their vegetables so that they have the strongest immune systems of life. Survival of the fittest suckas! But now I’m going to have pansy-assed little children with allergies and a constant cold. And then after all the birth control is flushed out of my system and is working its way into our lakes and rivers to fuck with the fishes reproductive systems, I’m going to not want to fuck my husband, but instead fuck the guys I should have been fucking in the first place. AHHHHH. This has been consuming my soul for the past 3 days!

With this new information I’m now also really concerned about my little sister and all of her fellow rap group members. Listen to their recent release entitled “Crush”:


Birth control is clearly messing with their smelling systems as well! We’re all doomed!! I’m so fucking freaked out right now!!! Our civilization is going to collapse in on itself!!!!

So with all this panic, maybe I should just stop taking birth control. Right? I should take out my Nuva Ring (because I couldn’t be responsible enough to take a pill daily), just be responsible, not sleep with strangers, and double up on condoms. Sigh. This doesn’t sound like fun at all. I really like being slutty, and I still feel like I have some good trampages left in me.

See how tough this is? To help you out with your/my decision, here are some pros and cons of stopping my birth control:

PROS: (I’ve pretty much mentioned them all, but just to remind you)
- Will find hot husband I want to fuck for the rest of my life
- MiniHippies will kick your children’s immune systems in the ass
- Similar to the non-birth controlled Exotic Dancers, I will attract more men, or at least get more tips
- I won’t be polluting our waters with my birth-control pee
- I’ll lose the 5 lbs birth control made me gain

- I will probably end up with an illegitimate child conceived after a night I have little memory of
- That’s a pretty major con

Please vote in the comment area. My reproductive system depends on it.


Tuesday, December 02, 2008

Attention World

I have bangs now. And no visible forehead.

Why do I get haircuts when my uterus plainly wants me to stay home and eat cookies?

I hope I don't regret this.


Monday, December 01, 2008

ThePeach is Nocturnal Again; Scared

Dear TheNurse,

It’s happening again. I’m becoming a woman of the night. A mole-person. A crazy-eyed psychopath.

It’s happening again.

Remember when we lived together during undergrad and I wouldn’t emerge from my room for days at a time? Remember how my eyes adjusted to the darkness, like some kind of raccoon? Remember how you’d come downstairs for your pre-work cheerios at 5:30am to find me quietly baking a piece of chicken?

TheNurse: *shuffles into kitchen with eyes closed. Flips on light. Opens eyes to discover Peach standing 4 inches away, peering calmly into TheNurse’s face with pupils the size of quarters*
ThePeach: Hi.
TheNurse: *screams*
ThePeach: Want some chicken?
TheNurse: MOTHERFUCK! You scared the dried shit out of me!! What are you doing standing in the kitchen, in the dark, at 5:30am?? Are you a bat now?? Were you hanging upside-down from the ceiling before I got here?!
ThePeach: I’m writing my research paper. It’s on schizophrenia.
TheNurse: *sniff* Do I smell minute rice?
ThePeach: I’m making dinner. The peas should be done soon, too.
TheNurse: Do you realize it’s 5:30am?
ThePeach: Of course, silly. WAIT. WHAT MONTH IS IT??
TheNurse: December.
ThePeach: *microwave dings* Ok. Good. I’m going to eat these peas in my room. See you tomorrow. *takes bowl out of microwave, walks into room, turns off light.*

Remember how I would work until 6 or 7am every night (morning?), sleep until 5pm, and repeat x 2 weeks every year during finals? Remember how pale I would get from my only natural light being the moon? Remember how creepily calm I would remain during this mania, how I would flatly spew out 40 page papers, but then fall onto the floor incapacitated with hysterical grief if I ran out of Alphaghetti?

It’s happening again.

But now it’s worse, because I have to go to class at 9am every morning.
But now it’s worse, because coffee makes me think sleep is my little bitch.
But now it’s worse, because I discovered energy drinks. My chest hurts.

Here is a rough outline of my day.

The sun rises. I thrash around in bed like I am coming down off a bad coke binge. I have been lying down for just over 1 hour. There is a laptop on top of my abdomen, frying my fallopian tubes into infertility. There is a post-it note stuck in my hair that says "eat a vegetable today". I’m dreaming that the cat is break dancing to “Faith” by George Michael. It is partially true, as I realize the music is coming out of my radio alarm and the cat is using my scalp as a trampoline. Coffee #1-3. Shower. 6 hours of class + 4 cups of coffee. Home. 1-2 hour nap. Wake up in a dark vortex. Unaware of time, place or date. Is it tomorrow? What is tomorrow? December? Why am I wearing only tube socks and a hooded sweatshirt? Call FauxHawk. Cry over amount of work. Pout and make dinner. Wash it down with either a red bull or a full throttle. Love life again. Call all friends to tell them I love life. Work until 2am. Decide to quit school. Coffee x 3. Work until 5am. Crawl into bed (literally crawl). Remove pants but not socks or sweatshirt. Kiss pillow with fervor. Embrace mattress. Mutter loving words to blanket. Heart feels funny. Sleep 2 hours. Dream of poutine.

It’s happening again, TheNurse.

You’ll be glad to know, though, that I am seriously going to cut down on the energy drinks. My life is hilarious and cruelly ironic, and I can think of no death more pathetic or fitting than a bull-induced heart attack. It might already be God’s final chapter to my life, and I don’t want to encourage him. But if I should actually pass into the netherworld, please print the following obituary: no more, no less.

ThePeach. 1982-2008. Cause of death: Full Throttle. She died as she lived.

Don’t be mad, TheNurse. At least I’m eating my vegetables.


Sunday, November 30, 2008

People Enjoy Disastrous Whores; ThePeach is Grateful

Bitches! I made it to round two! I'm in the top 6 in the country, hahaha what the fuck. What is this contest and how did I get nominated? What is happening? Where am I?!

Right. I'm on campus with HotMess and we're chugging the energy drink "Full Throttle" and listening to Christmas Carols on her laptop as we manically work on our essays. Essays are hilarious. Full Throttle is no Red Bull, but if it keeps my heart racing enough to spew out something academic onto this page, then BRING. IT. ON.

Focus. I'm in the top 6. There are 6 more days of voting. Vote Peach if you love drunk, crazy, offensive whores.


ThePeach's Computer is a Tramp; Learns from the Best

Before I start, I'd like to remind my gentle readers that you only have ONE MORE DAY TO VOTE FOR ME. So please, vote this bitch up. http://cdnba.wordpress.com/vote-2008/best-personal-blog/

Story time. But it has to be quick because I'm supposed to be writing a 15 page term paper on First Nations people, and all this contrived political correctness is exhausting me. Why can't I call them Injuns, I ask you? WHY?


I'm still not a lesbian. This story isn't going to help convince you, though.

So, you know how I'm addicted to the tv show "The L Word"? Seriously, just watch it. It's amazing. I even got QueenB hooked, and she's completely againt lesbian sex. And there is a LOT of lesbian sex on this show. It's woven around intricate and edgy plots, but about every 7-10 minutes you will inevitably watch a topless chick finger-bang another topless chick in a swimming pool, or an actress fuck her director using a strap-on, or there will be an 8-minute musical montage where a white chick runs ice cubes over a black chick's nipples. I found it a little weird at first, but now I'm totally into it.

Why do I feel like I'll repeat that exact sentence someday as FauxHawk asks me when I started having sex with women? Sigh.

Ok. So, we've established that the show is awesome. And the sex scenes are hot.

So it only made sense to download a bunch of the sex scenes off the interwebs. How could I not? I wanted to relive the exact moment when the rough and bold Bette gave herself over to Tina! I needed to rewatch the dramatic and highly controversial chick-on-chick rape scene! And the time Mirena went down on Jenny and her fiance walked in on them!? Craziness!

Well. Now my computer has 131 trojan viruses.

I'm not kidding. 131.

My flash player no longer works, I can't use internet explorer anymore, and 98% of my computer space is being used up by mystery processes. My laptop randomly turns off at intermittent times, probably because it's trying to kill itself. Programs open with the speed of a senior citizen climbing a flight of stairs. This morning I tried to reboot and I spent an hour hitting "end now" buttons on all of the "this program is not responding" windows that kept popping up. Seriously - an hour. I read the entire Saturday Globe and Mail during this process.

131 trojan viruses. Help me.

I guess I'm a computer porn rookie. Perhaps there are ways to download that don't result in crippling computer viruses, but I am not wise to them.

My computer has 131 STDs. Because I was downloading porn.

I blame the lesbians.


Friday, November 28, 2008

Awww, Baby!

Most people respond to the jealous reactions of their significant others with anger. For some, extreme jealous reactions have been the cause of breakups.

Not me. I react to FauxHawk's jealousy with joy, giddiness, and the warm glow of affection. Maybe this is because FauxHawk has been jealous maybe three times in 4 and a half years of dating me and I read these rare flashes as signs that, yes, he luuurves me.

I guess his lack of jealousy can be interpreted as supportive behaviour. He reads my blog and thus follows my whorish antics, and his only response is "very nice." He sits back and quietly supervises while I aggressively molest my female friends. He leaves me to my own devices when groups of mens start hitting on me in bars, and assumes that I can take care of myself. When I dance on tables and take my top off, he's always there with a camera and a supportive nod. I guess this is a nice thing. A mature thing.

But I crave the jealousy. I do.

Today, I got a phone call from the 'Hawk after he read my lesbianism blog. He had nothing to say about my glaring examples of dyke infedelity and what might be a future propensity to dive into muff. No, that was all fine. He was upset about my character side bar, or the "Who the hell am I talking about?" section, because he got bumped down for my j-school friends.

FauxHawk: I can't believe you bumped me down!!!
ThePeach: Really??
FauxHawk: I just...I can't believe I'm not at the top anymore!
ThePeach: But it doesn't mean anything!
FauxHawk: I can't believe you put me below your J-school friends!
ThePeach: I'll put it back! I can make it right!
FauxHawk: No. I don't want a pity ranking. No. Don't you dare. I don't even care.
ThePeach: Wait...are you...jealous?
ThePeach: I'm so in love with you. SO IN LOVE!

Aw. Baby. I love you. The bumping meant nothing! You're still at the top of the list in my mind, mainly because you give me the sexing.

And now I would like to sing you a song from the classic musical "Anything Goes" to earn your forgiveness:

You're the top! You're the Colosseum.
You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum.
You're a melody from a symphony by Strauss
You're a Bendel bonnet,
A Shakespeare's sonnet,
You're Mickey Mouse.
You're the Nile,
You're the Tower of Pisa,
You're the smile on the Mona Lisa
I'm a worthless check,
a total wreck, a flop,
But if, baby, I'm the bottom you're the top!

And now I must be on my way to drink jager-bombs and sing karaoke. Also, I am wearing leggings again. Help.


ThePeach is not a Lesbian; NOT A LESBIAN!

The fact that I have to make a blog disclaimer once every 6 months makes me seriously question my lifestyle, but seriously - I AM NOT A LESBIAN!! Jesus!

Why does everyone keep thinking that I'm a box-eater? Is it because I make out with girls? Because I only really make out with TheHippie, and she's my hetero life partner. HETERO LIFE PARTNER! We make out because we're in love and because we have drinking problems. If that makes me a lesbian then cut my hair off and buy me a motorcycle.

In the day since I posted about my night out in the BigCity, the following conversations occured:

1) In class
FrogBoy: My friend is obsessed with your blog.
ThePeach: Oh. Yay!
FrogBoy: He keeps talking about you.
ThePeach: Yay! Fans!
FrogBoy: He told me that you seem awesome. This is a direct quote: "ThePeach is a crazy, drunk, whorish, lesbian, cat-lady!"
ThePeach: Yay! Wait. What? I'm not a cat lady.

2) In Spaz's apartment
Spaz: So. You really like SpongeBath, eh?
ThePeach: Ya. She's awesome.
MortalCombat: Ok. But you, like...really like her, eh?
ThePeach: She's really funny.
Spaz: You hang out a lot in class.
MortalCombat: And she got a name in your blog pretty fast. That's kind of unheard of.
Spaz: And you guys keep talking about...bathing.
ThePeach: OH MY GOD. You guys think I'm a lesbian!!!?? Have you talked about this? Is this an intervention or something?
MortalCombat: Maybe you should explain the bathing to us.
ThePeach: It's a joke! A joke!!!
Spaz: About bathing.
ThePeach: I hate you both.

Why?? WHY??

Is it because I once joined a lesbian choir? Because that was an accident.

Is it because I have 9 lesbian friends? That's right - 9. And they're all super hot? Because associating with lesbians just makes me diverse.

Is it because I'm obsessed with the tv show "The L Word"? The lesbian drama? Because that show is just awesome. And just because it features scenes like the one below doesn't mean I want to get doused in oil and tossed about by a femme. Not necessarily. Not today, anyway.

Is it because I once got kicked out of a club because I let TheCrazy take my boobs out? Because I was just being friendly. And do I again have to point out my alcohol problem?

Is it because I was once attacked by a female stripper who took my boobs out (why is this a recurring theme in my life?)? Because that was more like a violent rape.

In conclusion, I am NOT A LESBIAN. Here's why:
  • I have never had sex with a woman. Although once I had sex with a man while a woman was present. But she just watched.
  • I have never touched a vag. Except my own. And I swear I hated it.
  • I always wear a bra, shave my legs, and wear deoderant.
  • I eat meat.
  • Given the choice between a hamburger and a hotdog, I'll always choose a hotdog. Other phallic foods I enjoy include: popsicles, cucumbers, bananas, wraps, hot-rods.
  • I like penis.

Journalism school has taught me to always be fair and give both sides of the argument, so here are some links that don't exactly help my case:








Oh my god. I need to rethink my life choices.


Wednesday, November 26, 2008

A Typical Wednesday Night

Work has been consuming my soul again. Journalism grad school is a drag.

I was starting to lose my mind around 5pm, so I went for a jog. Maybe this seems like a healthy life-choice, but I should mention that CapitalCity is in the midst of a blizzard. A blizzard of wet, slimy snow. And it was pitch-black out. Within 30 seconds of being outdoors ice-water had soaked through my shoes and socks, my face was crusted with a layer of ice, and I had dropped my ipod in a snow-bank. No matter. Exercise would prevail!

I made it 6 km before I turned back out of fear of death. I was completely saturated with ice water, my lulus had frozen through, and I was skidding along the bike path with the grace of Bambi on his first set of legs.

I got home and showered for approx 35 minutes.

After the thawing, I sat down at my laptop for about 4 minutes before my uterus made a polite request.

Uterus: COOKIES!!!!!!
ThePeach: But…work?
Uterus: COOKIES!!!!!
ThePeach: I don’t even have cookies. I’m trying to be healthy.
Uterus: What’s the point? You’re just going to get fat when you hit menopause. And, let’s be honest – it’s not that far off. Just eat the fucking cookies and cry. NOW.
ThePeach: *sob* I’ll see if Spaz has any.

Spaz didn’t have cookies, but she did have ice cream with cookies mashed into it! Her uterus made her buy it. I went up for a visit.

We spent the next hour madly consuming ice cream, moaning about how much work we have, moaning about our uteri, and making out a grocery list for the Taco Casserole we plan to make tomorrow (Maybe MortalCombat has some cooking tips?).

Then we talked about ex-boyfriends. Then we decided we should get to work.

Uterus appeased, I returned to my computer. I spent 2 whole hours doing work. I was nowhere near finished. I got up to make my 37th cup of coffee.

ThePeach: Oh come ON!
ThePeach: *punches abdomen* No! I already ate the fucking ice cream! And I don’t have any more popcorn, which means I have to waste more time by visiting MortalC or Spaz to beg food off them, and I NEED TO DO WORK RIGHT NOW!
Uterus: What’s the point? You’re just going to fail out of school anyway and wind up working in a Burger King. Or as a security guard for a Kellogg’s factory. I command that you find some microwave popcorn, eat the entire thing, and then reminisce about past heart-breaks.
ThePeach: *sob* I’ll email MortalCombat.

Exact copy of the email I sent MortalCombat at 10:30pm, interrupting her sacred Buffy night:

Subject: Emergency!

Ok, it's not an emergency. I just wanted to get your attention away from Buffy.

I haven't talked to you once today and it's an awful thing! I miss my phone.

DO YOU HAVE ANY MICROWAVE POPCORN?? My uterus is begging for some and won't let me rest until I consume an entire bag. Please, for the sake of my uterus, do you have microwave popcorn?!

I am going to be up ALL NIGHT researching FUCKING NORWAY!!!!


Your favourite mess.

Ps - went for a run today. In the blizzard. It was awful. It was like exercise plus a cold bath.

I did not receive a reply. But then – a miracle! Here is the exact copy of the msn conversation:

ThePeach: Ah, irony. No. I’m sorry.
Spaz :*screams*
ThePeach: I'd go with you to the store but they're closed. Text Muffy for some. And tell her to bring me microwave popcorn because my uterus is CRAZY.
Spaz says: It’s Muffy night. I can't. I have mic pop.
ThePeach: *gasp* I just made some coffee if you want some...
Spaz: Yes! Bring me a cup and you can have popcorn.
ThePeach: ok.
Spaz: a large cup.
ThePeach: yessir, be right up.
Spaz: yayyy.

I carried a steaming cup of coffee upstairs for Spaz. Tradesies! We moaned about how much work we had as the popcorn popped. We moaned about our uteri. We discussed hairstyles. When the popcorn was ready, Spaz said she just wanted “one or two handfuls” before I left.

2 and a half minutes later the popcorn was completely obliterated and we stood beside the empty bowl with our faces and hands smeared with chemical butter. We looked at each other with shame.

Spaz: Wow. We just totally bulimia’d that entire bowl.
ThePeach: Heh. Yes.
Spaz: We should probably get to work.
ThePeach: Yes.

And here I am, updating my blog instead of researching Norway. At least my uterus had a productive night.

Uterus: Someone had to. Fatty.


Saturday Night I Feel the Air is Getting Hot. Like You, Baby.

“Peach, I really don’t think you should drink any Red Bull tonight.”

TheHippie tenderly takes my hand in hers and shouts over the noise of the band in the crowded bar. It is a touching moment.

“Seriously, you’ve been a little cracked out on the Bull. You need to detox before your nervous system collapses. No Red Bull! No Jager-bombs! Take it easy! Stick to Gin and shots of Tequila. For your health. Please.”

I look deep into her worried little eyes. Oh, how I love this wee Hippie. I pat her curly hair and grip her hand.

“Ok, TheHippie. For you.”

The band breaks into a rowdy rendition of “Sweet Caroline” as I make eye contact with Workahol over the table. She nods discreetly and slips out of her chair. I meet her at the bar.

“Two Jager-bombs. Extra Bull.”

I can’t help it. I have a problem. It’s called “I haven’t slept more than 2 hours/night in 2 weeks and I know the Bull might give me a heart attack, but if I don’t chug one RIGHT NOW you will probably find me passed out under a pile of coats in about 15 minutes.”

Workahol understands. She is, after all, a workahol. We clink our glasses.

“Here’s to reaching the point in our careers where we don’t sleep, have no lives, and require extensive amounts of energy drink just to function in a pub. And it’s only 9:30pm. Here’s to us. Now, let’s get fucked up.”

“Amen, bitch.”

I slap her ass and she squeals and skips back to the table. I order a gin and go sit next to TheHippie.

“See? Just a gin.”

“You’re talking really fast.”

“And you, ma’am are a drunk.”


I love my friends. We had started drinking at 6pm back in QueenB’s apartment. First there was wine, then there was gin, then there were about 6 rounds of mystery shots made by Workahol. We were stumbling by 8pm. By 9pm, Cleavage had me thrust up against a wall while Englishman frantically took pictures. By 9:05pm, Cleavage had me thrust up against a wall while holding Workahol on her back, while Englishman frantically took pictures and thanked Jebus for drunk whores. TheHippie had her crazy eyes before we even left the house.

"I'm gonna hook up tonight," she said repeatedly.

Fast forward to the bar. It is now 10:30pm and multiple rounds of shots have been consumed by all. We are dancing like svelte ninjas. It is not a dancing bar. The band suddenly breaks into “So Happy Together” by The Turtles. I scream, dig my cell phone out of my purse, and call MortalCombat.



“Peach??! Where are you?? Aren’t you in the BigCity tonight?”


“Ohmigod, are they playing our song in a bar? Are you drunk??! Wait, of course you are. OHMIGOD, DID YOU JUST DRUNK DIAL ME BECAUSE THEY’RE PLAYING OUR SONG?? I LOVE YOU!!!”


“MortalCombats I loves you!!!”

“Oh my god, I love you too, Peach. Come home.”

“Soons, my pet. Soons.”


I return to the table and my friends have decided that we should move on to a new bar. One that can accommodate our current level of drunk whoring. One like Philthy McNasty’s.

We arrive at the new bar and I make eye contact with Workahol.

“Two Jager-bombs. Extra Bull.”

As we’re chugging the bounty of our lord, two boys approach us. They offer to buy us shots. But of course, kind Sirs.

Many shots later, TheHippie joins us. She partakes in the shots. Things start getting fuzzy. The next thing I know TheHippie’s tongue is in my mouth. It’s not entirely disagreeable. I’m not sure who grabbed who. Kissing is nice. Shockingly, a new round of shots is purchased for us by the kind Sirs. The poor boys don’t understand that TheHippie and I have a pure and non-sexual love. What they are witnessing is not lust, but mutual respect and adoration.

I grab her knocker. (actually, in this picture Cleavage is grabbing her knocker. I'm on the left. With my bra hanging out. Professionalism.)

We all decide it’s time to dance.

There is a pole on the dance floor. At one point TheHubby thrusts me up against it. This is a recurring theme in my life. I visit the ladies room and Cleavage follows. We hate being separated by the shitter stalls so we stand on the toilets to converse more freely with each other. Someone else needs to use the terlet so we climb back down. Morosely.

More dance floor pole thrusting. I haven’t seen TheHippie in an hour. I start whimpering. Where is my love?

I’m in a cab, nuzzled into Cleavage’s cleave.

“Itsh oks, Peach. You’ll shee her tomorrows.”

“I might vom now.”

The cabbie eyes me wearily.

TheHubby chimes in. “Don’ts vom, Peach. I’llsh punch yous in the box if yous do.”


Back home, QueenB puts me to sleep next to Englishman and Cleavage. Our Squatter’s village is cozy. But it is missing one special person.

“QueenB, wheres ish Hippie?”

“She wentsh homes with Bubba. Now go to sleeps. You haves a train in the morning.”

I pass out.

Sans pants. Sans Hippie.


ps - VOTE!! http://cdnba.wordpress.com/vote-2008/best-personal-blog/

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Sunday Bloody Sunday

“Peach. Peach!”

QueenB’s hand shakes my leg.

“Peach, your train is in an hour.”

I try to open my eyes but they are glued together with mascara and dried tears. I roll over blindly and land on another body. I pry my crusted eyes open and see that I have landed on the Englishman’s leg, which is wrapped around Cleavage’s unconscious form. We are all on a giant air mattress on the floor. It is our squatter’s village. Above us on the couch, TheHubby sighs in his sleep.

Beside the couch is a table with 12 empty wine bottles on top and a single remaining piece of Toro sushi. Did I eat sushi? I lick my lips. They taste of Wasabi, TheHippie, and vom.

“Where…where…is TheHippie?”

“She went home with Bubba. You were pretty upset about being separated. You kept asking for her. Eventually I had to tuck you into bed so you’d stop whimpering.”

“Why do I feel like I have a concussion?”

“You headbutted a guy at the bar.”


It is Sunday morning and I am in the BigCity. I don’t know where my pants are.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Presenting: The Best of ThePeachPit (also, prease to vote for me?)

Hi Bitches,

Something weird happened. I was nominated for some Canadian blogging award. I'm not sure how it happened, but I'm kind of...excited? Hungry? Excited and hungry? So anyway...

Maybe you wanna vote for me? http://cdnba.wordpress.com/vote-2008/best-personal-blog/
Just check the box for The Peach Pit. Heh. Box.

You have 1 week before voting ends.

In the spirit of blogging, I decided it was high time I create a "best of" list. I've been meaning to do this for ages, but a combination of laziness, craziness, and alcoholism have prevented me from compiling the list. Also, I don't actually know *how* to change my layout, hence the obnoxious pink template that I've had for 3 years. But, until I figure out how to add a "best of" list to my side-bar, I'll just post a list right here.

I give you...

THE BEST OF THEPEACHPIT (Or, Sorting Through My Archives for the Past Hour has Convinced Me that My Life is Actually God's Practical Joke):

My faves. For no real reason. In no particular order.

1. ThePeach is conflicted about Hallowe'en
A warm and fuzzy tale of how my boyfriend might likely be...*whispers*...gay.

2. ThePeach and TheCrazy Make Sangria!
A warm and fuzzy tale of the dangers of dating a gynecologist and adopting his friends.

3. Oh, Goody.
Rrroll up the rrrim. Rrrape me.

4. ThePeach goes on an Epic Bender; Angers Body
I don't know how I'm still alive.

5. Milo Pisses all over ThePeach's Futon; Life
The week I found out my cat has AIDS.

6. ThePeach Gets Owned by Mastercard Employee; Sad Life Flashes Before Eyes
Why I fail at basic life skills. Or, why I will be in debtor's jail before I turn 30.

7. ThePeach is Afraid of Sleep
My family is more dysfunctional than yours.

8. ThePeach Wins a Colouring Contest; Loses Innocence
Still don't believe me? Try this one on for size.

9. ThePeach Prioritizes
How to succeed in school.

Ok! I hope you like. Also, VOTE.


Saturday, November 22, 2008

Cleavage visits; Hijacks Blog

Hello friends, this is Cleavage hijacking the Peach’s blog. I can’t say hijack in airports when I’m traveling between continents, but I can totally say it on this blog. Hijack! Jihad! Bomb! I am a blog terrorist!!! I’m also in Canada for two weeks, visiting friends and family (in that order) and generally vacationing. It hasn’t been very restful or very fun up to this point, so I ran away to the Peach’s. Some numbers to help you understand why I ran away:

Number of times my sister has told me ‘I don’t know, we haven’t thought about that yet’ with respect to wedding planning for her 2010 extravaganza (in which I’m supposed to be the maid of honour): 173
Number of times that phrase was shrieked at me through a haze of tears and estrogen: 112
Number of times my dad has caught me smoking pot since I came home nine days ago: 2
Number of times I have smoked pot to forget how crazy my family is since I came home nine days ago: four
Number of times I have gotten drunk to make dealing with the crazy family easier since I came home nine days ago: three
Number of kms driven to escape family by sleeping on Peach’s floor and giving her a guilt complex for being a ‘bad’ host because I foisted myself on her in the middle of the week: 406

I arrived, late, driving my mom’s minivan and with the Englishman feeling a bit bemused about what, exactly, we were doing in CapitalCity.

Cleavage: I’m so glad we’re not at my parents’ house.
Englishman: So, are we going to do touristy things?
Cleavage: Um, sure? I want to make Peach dinner tonight though, she sounded rough on the phone. And you know, if she needs help with anything, like picking up groceries, we could do that too.
Englishman: So we’ve driven 400km to be live-in help?
Cleavage: Shut up. She’s my friend and my sister is bridezilla.

Peach greeted us at the door of her apartment, trailing an old issue of the Globe and Mail stuck to her sock and carrying a mug with something scummy inside.

Peach: Hiiiiiii! Look! I drink coffee now! This is coffee! In this cup!
Cleavage: Um…wow. Is that mold? In the mug? In the mug you’re drinking from?
Peach: Come in, I cleaned the shitter for you! I don’t clean anything any more because it - hey, did I tell you that I drink coffee now?
Cleavage: Are you sure it’s ok if we stay here? We could go to a motel or something…
Peach: God, no, don’t mistake my complete emotional paralysis for a lack of interest, if I could summon anything close to a will to live I would be REALLY EXCITED that you’re here. But it turns out that sleep deprivation is like botox for my soul, so I just look and sound angry and crusty all of the time, and this week has been really bad, I have this seminar tomorrow and I’m editing an article right now, and there is a group meeting here in half an hour so you have to sit on the couch and be very quiet…
Cleavage: I brought my mom’s turkey soup, home made pizza, and my own sheets and towels.
Peach: *sob*…don’t tell the group meeting about the pizza.

Number of times I heard the word ‘Wikipedia’ while eavesdropping on the group meeting: 7
Slices of homemade pizza consumed by Peach while standing in kitchen: 2
Alternate uses for Globe and Mail: Slippers, foot rest, insulation against ridiculous cold of Capital City, pirate hats.
Cups of coffee consumed by group members after 10:30pm: three
Minutes the Englishman and I lasted in the apartment with intense journalism students before going for a walk in -10 weather: 55

The next morning, Peach went out, presented, and was back doing worky-type things before The Englishman and I had managed to peel ourselves off the air mattress. I made myself some breakfast while The Englishman sat on Peach’s couch, enjoying the restful silence.

Peach: Um, do you want to watch TV or something?
Englishman: No, I’m ok.
Peach: Do you need food?
Englishman: No, I’m not really hungry yet.
Peach: So you’re happy to just…um…sit? And stare?
Englishman: Yup. Am I making you uncomfortable?
Peach: …no.

Times Peach apologized for being an awesome, crazy grad student: too many
Number of times Peach came out of her room topless to finish a sentence: two
Kilometers walked by The Englishman and I that afternoon while Peach sweat over a freelance proposal: 15
Percentage of those kms walked unnecessarily because The Englishman does not have as infallible a sense of direction as he likes to think: 30
Uses for Globe and Mail: Cat litter. Cat toy. Cat bed. Cat scratching post. Cat perch.
Minutes after we arrived home before Peach announced she was quitting journalism: 3
Hours we waited to go out for food because Peach had one phone interview, then another, then another, then had to transcribe notes: 4

So we taxi to a dive bar, drink moderately but steadily, eat too little, and Peach and I reminisce about our UniversityTown glory days. For five straight hours.

Number of times I thought Peach was going for a rack grab when she wanted a tender hand-holding moment: One.
Minutes walking home in -11bazillion degrees: 25
Epiphanies during walk home: 2
Disbelieving journalism classmates sworn to secrecy over revelations of scandalous undergrad behaviour: 1
Joints smoked: 1
Disbelieving boyfriends horrified by candid revelations: 1
Meat sticks consumed: 2
Percentage of meat sticks fed to cat: 10
Number of orifices violated with meat sticks prior to consumption: 6
Uses for Globe and Mail: Rolling joints in the fold. Torch to keep joint lit so we don’t have to keep running into the kitchen to light it off the stove burner. Rewrapping leftover meat stick pieces. Pirate hats.
Times in the past 72 hours that The Englishman has pestered me for sex and been turned down because I didn’t want to share with Milo: 1337

The Englishman and I spent the entire next day in bed, while Peach sweated out the meat sticks and did some journalism type things, and then there was a mad dash to get Peach packed for a weekend at QueenB’s.

Peach: I need to clean the cat’s shitter, and give him extra food…
Cleavage: I’ll do it.
Peach: You’ll clean my cat’s shitter?
Cleavage: You once picked my wedgie for me because I was too drunk to manage. I think I can clean your cat’s shitter.
Peach: Put some fresh litter in while you’re at it.


And that was Cleavage. Isn’t she wonderful? Also, now you have a source to prove just how crazy J-school has made me. I’m going to go wrap myself in Globe and Mails and cry.


Monday, November 17, 2008

How to Succeed in Journalism

Scene: 10:55pm. Massive deadline due by morning. Hours of sleep in past 24 hours = 2. Story started yet = nay.

ThePeach picks up her cell phone.


Spaz: Hello?
Spaz: No.
Spaz: No.
ThePeach: *click*


MortalCombat: Hello?
MortalCombat: No.
MortalCombat: Doesn’t it close in 5 minutes?
MortalCombat: …I’m kind of afraid to let you go alone.
MortalCombat: I’m the best friend ev-
ThePeach: *click*

In the lobby.

MortalCombat: Are you sure we can make it there in ti-
ThePeach: RUN. NOW!!

*mad sprint to store*

MortalCombat: *wheezes* I think it’s closed.
ThePeach: NO!
MortalCombat: The lights are off.
ThePeach: NO!
MortalCombat: It’s over, Peach.
ThePeach: *bangs hands on windows* NOOOOOO!

*sullen walk back to building*

ThePeach: *sniffle*
MortalCombat: You know what? I might actually have one can of Redbull left in the back of my fridge.
ThePeach: WHAT?
MortalCombat: I can’t promise anything, but there’s a chance I have one.
ThePeach: RUN!

*MortalCombat’s apartment*

MortalCombat: Here you go!
ThePeach: I love you.
MortalCombat: Now, you only have one bull. Don’t waste it. Get to work immediately when you get into your apartment. Don’t waste the buzz.
ThePeach: Of course.



Sunday, November 16, 2008

Update: 1+2; or, ThePeach Attempts to Pull Shit Together without Getting Hit By Bike

- Got 10 hours of sleep last night.
- Caught up with WeeOne, something I have been meaning to do for weeks. Months. Miss that bitch so bad.
- Finally messaged Cleavage back. Told her to visit. Will make time for her and her glorious rack somehow. Black magic? Voodoo dance? Send suggestions re: time travel. Also, send cheese.
- Found bus money. Literally used quarters I found in bottom of laundry basket and a loonie I found stuck to the side of my binder with a piece of gum. Took bus to mall. First task: bought bus tickets.
- Replaced eaten cell phone charger. ‘Spensive. Considered selling cat. But then who would treat his AIDS? Decided I am a humanitarian for keeping bastard cat alive. Glowed with self-worth.
- Updated cell phone plan to include unlimited text messages and to avoid more $120 phone bills. Celebrated future savings by spending $70 in clothing store directly across the hall from Bell World. Shit-fuck.
- Went hog-wild at Independent Grocer. Bought approx 7 types of vegetables. Also, bought toilet paper. Basic life needs fulfilled.
- Bought natural peanut butter at hippy store. They had their own peanut press. Laughed out loud at how brown paste coiled into container like soft poop. Will come back to this store often.
- Once home, decided to forgo vegetables in favour of Kraft Dinner. Spiral Kraft Dinner. Felt classy.
- 8km run!!! In the rain! And dark! Alone! Somehow did not get raped on deserted bike path. Grateful. Questioned fuckability.
- Consumed vegetables.
- Visited Spaz. Peed self as she spazzed over printer malfunction.
- 3 cups coffee
- Realized I am not drunk on a Saturday. Miracle.
- Wrote half of essay. Miracle. Actually enjoyed articles. Shock.
- Phone call from FauxHawk. Got in serious trouble for admitting that I tried my first cigarette. Breakup threats were uttered. Felt bad. Decided I don’t necessarily need to partake in every possible vice. Things I’m already addicted to include: caffeine, gambling, drinking, tv, sex.
- Legs stiff from running. Hurts so good.
- 1 cup coffee.

How am I doing?


Saturday, November 15, 2008

ThePeach Discovers Her Calling; Fears for Future

I’ve discovered that the key to surviving Journalism grad school is a delicate and careful balance of three things:

1. Work
2. Basic Life Skills
3. Drinking Your Motherfucking Face Off (with friends. no need to worry yet.)

I am neither delicate nor careful, so my balance act so far has consisted of combinations of 2 out of 3 factors. All with intriguing results.

1+2 = Study on weekends. Get to bed by 11. Eat a hearty breakfast. Pass school. Talk to bastard cat for company. Run 10k multiple times/week. Sleep cradling bottle of gin; caressing its cool, glass body. Whisper sweet-nothings in its ear. Forget how to interact socially. Become a troll-person. A troll-person with rock-hard running legs.

2+3 = Use books as coasters. Use articles and newspapers as papers for rolling pot. Smoke first ever cigarette and enjoy it. Drink all of the alcohol in your well-stocked bar. Including the bottle of baby duck from TheHubby, the coconut rum from the airport in Jamaica, and that bottle of Peach Schnapps you’ve had since you were 15. School is for fools. Go for long jogs during brief moments of sobriety. Consume vegetables. Sleep 6 hours/night. Love life. Love friends. Accidentally write racist comment in essay. Re-evaluate priorities.

And finally, the most disastrous:

1+3 = Buy more wine. Buy pot from strangers in parking lot. Read news at 6am. Write essays from 1am-6am. Conduct interviews in rare moments of sobriety. Forget what bed looks like. Pass out on living room floor for brief cat-naps. Show up at class pot-luck two hours late and cradling a bucket of chicken. Somehow get an A. Live off of coffee and leftover Chinese-fried rice for 4 consecutive days. Get scurvy. Love friends. Hate life. Sprint across campus in a monsoon and wind up knee-deep in some sort of swamp. Constant scary homicidal eyes. Lose cat for 24 hours. Somehow get another A. Stare longingly at sheets. Weep gently at random.

So, I just came off a two-week bout of 1+3. I look a little haggard and feel like I have hepatitis. I decided yesterday that it was time to go back to 1+2. I confidently told Mortal Combat about my plan on our walk to school.

ThePeach: I’m going to stay in all weekend and study!
MC: Good!
ThePeach: I’m going to do groceries and consume vegetables!
MC: Yes!
ThePeach: I’m going to be productive, healthy, and mostly sober!
MC: Ok!
ThePeach: Seriously, I’m turning over a new leaf. As of today I am passing the “class disaster” torch onto someone new. HotMess?
MC: Yes!

And that was when I got run over by a bike.

I am not kidding.

At the exact moment, right when I swore on Tanqueray that I would end the disaster-train, I got hit by a chick on a bike. She ran over my leg, shouted a half-assed “sorry” over her shoulder, and then rode away.

I was involved in a bike hit and run at 9am. On a sidewalk.

I guess that was the universe’s way of telling me not to change. Or that it won’t let me. My destiny is clear now.

My name is ThePeach and I am a hilarious mess. The universe has decreed that my role is to entertain others and live a life of pathetic fallacy and irony.

Point in case: My cat just ate my cell phone charger.


Thursday, November 06, 2008

ThePeach Prioritizes

I have a law exam in 2 hours. Roadblocks such as having so much work I could puke and drinking 3 jager-obamas plus a McCain southern comfort shot on Tuesday meant that I was only able to start studying last night. Oh hey, last night was also the ONE NIGHT FauxHawk and I were able to visit in the past 3 weeks and the next 3 to come. What does one do in this situation? Prioritize.

8:30pm: FauxHawk arrives. Hug. Manically update him on my life. Drink another coffee.
9:00pm: Order $60 worth of Chinese food.
9:45pm: Consume $10 worth of Chinese food. Put rest in fridge. Hop excitedly outside fridge over the food I will live off of for next 3 weeks.
10:00pm: FauxHawk is sent to room to watch tv and keep cat from distracting me. I diligently prepare to study.
10:10pm: Break. Visit hawk.
10:20pm: Hop excitedly outside fridge. Lift food lids and smell the soggy rice.
10:22pm: study.
10:30pm: Oh hey, I'm missing notes from the day I was to drunk to make it to class. Bribe MortalCombat with spring rolls. Great success. Stay in her apartment for 20 minutes to catch up.
10:50pm: Break. Visit Hawk. He's watching V for Vendetta and cat is curled up in his lap like hairy angel. Sigh. Want to join idyllic scene. Hate life.
11:00pm: Oh shit. STUDY. COFFEE. STUDY. COFFEE.
11:30pm: Smell leftover chinese food. Lick a spring roll.
11:40pm: MortalCombat comes to retrieve notes. Stays for 20 minutes to say hi to Hawk and marvel at my now clean kitchen.
11:45pm: Check email. Find out I got the apprenticeship I wanted for April. Text and email everyone I know in attempt to procrastinate. Wake up a now sleeping FauxHawk to tell him. He is groggy and confused.
12:15am: Discreetly eat beef fried rice.
12:20am: Frantic call from Spaz. Her toilet is flooded. May she use my shitter? Of course. She stays for 20 minutes to say hi to Hawk and to chat with me.
12:40am: Cat gets out while Spaz leaves. Gallops halls for 15 minutes. Finally calms down when FauxHawk steps into hall. The two lovers return to the bedroom.
1:15am: Bed time.
1:15-2:00am: SEX. SEX. SEX. SEX. SEX. SEX. SEX.
2:15am: FauxHawk passes out. Discreetly slip out of bed and hop excitedly in front of fridge. Eat General Tao's chicken with fingers; naked.
2:20am: OH SHIT I SHOULD STUDY. OH GOD I zzzzzzzz
6:00am: Herro.
6:30am: Hey, I can study before class if I'm really productive and speedy with my breakfast.
7:00am: Finish updating blog.

Priorities. The only way to achieve success.


Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Haikus are a hoot

I'm too tired to write an actual update, so here is a series of haikus I wrote in class today when I should have been listening to a talk on multimedia something something. Oops. I call the series "What happened to you?" and hope that it will shed some light onto why I've been bad at keeping in touch lately with my B.J. (Before Journalism...or Blow Job, depending on who you are and how I paid for that pot) friends. I heart you?

Loeb: I pine for thee.
Can I live on Jiffy Pop?
Hey, I lost five pounds.

I cleared out my bar
Even drank the Baby Duck
(I was aging it)

Sixty Globe and Mails
Cat thinks they’re his litter box
I should throw those out.

Who remembers sleep?
Sultry temptress; cocky tease
Have your way with me.

Midnight: corner store
Red-bull, margarine, cup-o-soup
That should do the trick.

Mortal Combat. Spaz.
Triplets. Soulmates. Crazy whores.
Text me every hour.

Spaz said “cunt” in class
I dared her to bring it up
Puppet-master pleased.

Heart races; hands shake
Four coffee cups on my desk.
I don't like Fridays.

MC proved her name
When she judo-kicked my hand
In the parking lot

Dishes festering
Mouldy plates and coffee mugs
I smell like old man.

Drink a box of wine
Pass out spooned with your laptop
Wake up infertile.

That last one was inspired by the real-life events of my beautiful friend HotMess.

Ok. This was a lame post, but I'm sneepy. So very sneepy. Maybe I'll squeeze in a wee nap before I head to the bar with my class to watch the election results and shoot Jager-Obombas. Get it? Get it?! Wee! Puns!

Ya. Nap.


Saturday, October 25, 2008

ThePeach goes on an Epic Bender; Angers Body

I’ll try to string together my words in a coherent manner, but I’m really not in the best state of mind right now. My brain is pickled in vodka and gin. Seriously, I think I acquired brain damage this week. I’m knocking shit over, losing my words, and my attention span is hey I think I smell curry. Someone’s cookin’.

Ok, what? Right. The bender.

I am having a tough week. Beyond the usual sleep deprivation and overwhelming/impossible workload, I am also having a crisis of confidence. It’s bad. And depressing.

I’m quite sure that:

1) I am an awful writer
2) I will never get a job
3) I will fail out of school
4) I’m maybe obese
5) I don’t belong in a program filled with such ambitious, talented journalists
6) Seriously, is my back fat growing?
7) I will never get a fucking goddamn cunt-wig A or A- in my reporting class. Even if I somehow track down motherfucking Gandhi for an interview and then perform a hummer on my godly Prof to the tune of the theme song for CBC’s The National. Even that would just get me a B+. Do do DO DO doooo.
8) I will never ever write a good lead.
9) WHY DO MY PANTS FEEL TIGHT??!! I don’t even have time to eat!!!! Motherfuck!
10) I will have a bad hair day every single day of my life for as long as I live in this city. Seriously, what the fuck is with the humidity here. UniversityTown was situated on a steaming lake and I still had less frizzy hair than I do here. Then we throw in the soft water I also have to contend with. I just don’t understand why god hates me.
11) I have pms. This isn’t a confidence crisis, but it does make me HATE EVERYTHING.
12) I will never remember to feed the cat before I go to sleep to prevent him waking me up every morning at 5am by walking across my face and howling like a rape victim until I get out of bed and dole out his prescription food.
13) I am never going to publish anything. Ever.
14) Hey, do you smell curry?

Ok, so as you can see things are looking dire. It didn’t help that I had another particularly stressful week, work-wise. So obviously the only solution was to drink my goddamn face off with my beautiful journalism friends for 3 nights in a row.

This wasn’t the original plan, mind you. No. The original plan was to be productive, get my work done, get a good sleep each night, and hopefully steer away from the knife drawer and start loving my life again. But I am very easily convinced to drop everything in the name of intoxication. You might call me socially malleable. You might call me an alcoholic. You might call me awesome. I will accept any of the three.

I had some rather serious internal struggles each time drinks were propositioned.

Wednesday: After helping to set up for a photo exhibit about HIV/AIDS in Rwanda (that’s right, I’m all global and shit now).

BadInfluence: Let’s get drinks.
J-Friends: Yes. Let’s.
ThePeach’s Brain: Young woman. You will by no means partake in drinking tonight. You have a proposal to write. You have a critique to prepare for. You have a very early class tomorrow. You are poor. You were up until 6am working on an assignment today and I fear that if you drink, you will actually die. You need to go home and write for a few hours and then take some vitamins, drink some milk, do some yoga, and get 8 hours of sleep.
ThePeach’s Uterus: Go home and eat cookies in bed. Cry. Eat some fries in your sweatpants. Cry more.
ThePeach’s: Liver: Please, no. Please. I beg you.
ThePeach’s Back-Fat: If you drink I will grow. I will. I’m a sly bitch.
ThePeach: Well…maybe one drink.

And then suddenly it’s 5 hours later, I’m in a 24-hour bagel shop consuming a bacon and cheese sandwich, my friend just got caught stealing a chocolate milk, and Spaz and I have left 6 dirty text messages on MortalCombat’s phone. I did not make it to class.

Thursday: After attending the grand opening of the photo exhibit, which was attended by Romeo Dallaire (that’s right, I know shit now).

BadInfluence: Let’s get drinks.
J-Friends: Yes. Let’s.
ThePeach’s Brain: Absolutely not. Today you slept until 3 in the afternoon. You have actually become nocturnal. There is bacon floating in the ventricles of your heart as we speak. You have to study for a news test and spend an entire day in class tomorrow. You still haven’t started your proposal or your critique. You need to go home and read a stack of newspapers, have some herbal tea, maybe eat some fruit, floss, stretch, and go to bed.
ThePeach’s Uterus: You shouldn’t have left the apartment in the first place. What were you thinking putting on pants. Get yourself out of the public eye immediately. Then I command that you bake and eat an entire cake. Then think about sad things and cry.
ThePeach’s Liver: *sobs* please. I’m twice the size I was yesterday. Please, just drink a few liters of water and lie down. I beg of you.
ThePeach’s Back-Fat: *sings* Here I come, creepin’ over the pants…
ThePeach: Well…maybe one drink.

And then the next thing I know it’s 2:30am and I am playing the original Super Mario Brothers on NES in my apartment with BadInfluence, all of the gin in my house has been consumed, the cat is wearing a Santa hat, and I am using a stack of unread newspapers as a foot rest.

I got 4 hours of sleep that night. Still aced the news quiz. Boom shakalaka.

Finally, Friday: After a day of city hall reporting, about 6 coffees, no real food, and a hasty and painful jog with MortalCombat.

Spaz: I’m going to have people over tonight. You will come, Peach. I know you will. Don’t lie and say you won’t.
ThePeach’s Brain: I am going to fucking kill you. You are going to write that motherfucking proposal RIGHT NOW. You are going to write that GODDAMN critique. You are going to attempt a night of sleep that does NOT start with you passing out in bed with your shoes on yet your pants mysteriously off. You are going to drink 10 glasses of water to flush out the gin and the coffee. You are going to consume a vegetable. I swear to Lucifer that if you consume a drop of alcohol tonight I will give you Parkinson’s disease. Don’t test me, whore.
ThePeach’s Uterus: Put on flannel pjs, preferably the dykaroos. Eat 14 bowls of cereal. Write sad poetry. Sign up for the Bernstein Diet.
ThePeach’s Liver: *screams*
ThePeach’s Back-Fat: Say goodbye to these jeans. I’m eating them.
ThePeach: Well…maybe one drink.

And then 5 hours later I find myself inside some kind of goth rave bar located on top of a vet hospital in Chinatown, I’m watching druggies in pagan costumes and/or rainbow flood pants prance around in black light, and I’m somehow completely comfortable in my surroundings.

Now it’s Saturday night. I still haven’t written my proposal or critique. I did, however, consume a vegetable.

I can’t say the 3-day bender cured the crisis of confidence, but I can say this:

1) Friends make everything ok. Loves of my life.
2) I haven’t lingered by the knife drawer since Thursday.
3) Sweatpants are acceptable day-wear until the jeans fit.

I swear I won’t drink again until next week. Unless I go for just one.


Wednesday, October 22, 2008

More Reporting FAIL

Today we had a court assignment. I spent the entire day in CapitalCity court, where I wore actual pants, shot-gunned coffee during every recess, and took down 16 pages of illegible scrawl which I must now turn into a brilliant article. We’ll see about that.

The case itself was pretty cool. In a nutshell, a wee Vietnamese man is accused of running a marijuana grow-op in the city. One of the perks of the trial was learning how exactly to run a fool-proof grow-op. I literally know exactly what steps I need to take to embark on this enterprise; including the chemicals required, amount of energy needed, and exact administrative duties that must be completed by each person on my team. This is even more fool-proof than the time TheHippie and I learned how to distill our own vodka out of potatoes in our undergrad “addictive behaviours” class. Seriously. They even gave us a diagram.

Well anyway, the wee Vietnamese man is totally screwed. He has no case. But he’s so little and cute that I just want to give him a hug and maybe ask for the contact info of a good dealer.

After court got out for the day, members of our class gathered around the court documents like vultures over a bloated corpse. There is only 1 copy of the document we all needed, and we were all ready to throw punches and cut faces to access it. At one point MortalCombat got her nimble little hands on the document, and I jokingly shouted out to her:


And that’s when the wee Vietnamese man stepped out from behind her.

He was so little that I didn’t see him lurking about behind her.

He absolutely heard me and so did everyone else.

I just shouted “RUN!!!” to the accused in a drug trial. Inside the court.

Reporting FAIL.

Also, I thought the judge’s first name was “Justice” for a good 6 hours today. I kept thinking “wow, how ironic that he became a judge.” Turns out his name is Alfred Roberts. Justice is the title. I should probably not be a court reporter.

I also experienced a Life FAIL this weekend when I meant to study but somehow wound up drinking for 12 straight hours, did 6 tequila shots in a row, and then danced on the counter of a shwarma hut.

I can’t decide if I’m awesome or if I should be put down.


Thursday, October 16, 2008

The return of chakra #2; predation

This is going to be trouble.

So, Tuesday was a fun day. We got out of class early because of elections, so MortalCombat and I wandered our neighbourhood to find our polling station. It was a gorgeous fall day in our beautiful little neighbourhood. We live in a tree-lined, oasis-like, 1955 mecca. Kids ride down the streets on bikes. Neighbours wave to each other. I can only assume that, inside the grand old houses, well-kept housewives baste turkeys or wax the floors or whatever the fuck it is that domesticated bitches do. Polish silverware? I don’t know.

So anyway, it was pretty idyllic outside. So, of course, we did the mature thing and frolicked in the leaves like a couple of 6-year-olds. It was all very innocent and sweet until I ruined things by saying “cock” in front of a group of pre-schoolers. Listen, they had to learn sometime.

Then we voted. We were so pleased with ourselves that we high-fived each other as we stuffed our votes in the ballot box. High five for democracy! Not that it did our poor fucked country any good, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t let this blog get partisan no matter how much I despise some of our sweater-clad elected officials.

*whispers* Herper

Ok. So after the high-five we walked to a major street nearby to do some grocery shopping. I literally had no food other than margarine and coffee, so hitting up the Loeb was top priority. And then…then…we passed an Aveda Spa. I knew better than to go in, but MortalCombat wanted to book an appointment. I told myself not to look at or touch anything. We went inside.

MortalCombat: Hi, I’d like to book an appointment.
MortalCombat: Today, if possible.
MortalCombat: Later in the afternoon.
MortalCombat: Credit card.
MortalCombat: Thanks.
MortalCombat: Can I use your washroom?
ThePeach’s Brain: FUCK

MortalCombat was gone for maybe 3 and a half minutes, but in that time I managed to try on, ask questions about, and purchase a $32 bottle of Aveda Body Spray. I decided this was a more important purchase than bread, milk, and foods to ward off ye scurvy. And I still stand by this. Because…



Who recalls my love affair with chakra 2 from last year? Please, read about it and get acquainted with the magical sexual chakra.

The chakra-2 teas of yesteryear transformed my life. Ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but I sure did do a lot of predating. And now someone has bottled the chakra in such a way that allows me to spray it directly onto my body.

On a totally unrelated note, FauxHawk is visiting this weekend.

I hope he takes his vitamins.


Monday, October 13, 2008


Scene: Class. Mid-morning. All is quiet.

Spaz: *leans over and whispers intently, with eyes large and sincere* Peach, you have a LOT of ex-boyfriends. Is it because you’re a whore or because you’re old?
ThePeach: *whispers* Shutup, Spaz.
Spaz: *whispers* No, really. Which is it?
ThePeach: *whispers*...both.
Spaz: *whispers* I thought so.
ThePeach: *whispers* Shutup, Spaz.

My new friends are awesome.


Tuesday, October 07, 2008

Reporting FAIL.

So, of course I never read the instructions to my complicated voice recorder. Have I ever read an instruction book in my life? Of course not, sillies. As for my recording device, I just mash the buttons until it starts recording, mash buttons to make it stop, and then jam the jabby end into my computer to make noises happen. Easy.

Today we had a press conference. It is necessary to record these so that I can stick the jabby end of my recorder into my laptop so that I can write down what the voices say for my article (which, btw, is due in 5 hours). So in class, while the prof was lecturing, I covertly pulled out my recorder to change the batteries in preparation for the conference. Multi-tasking is key. I inserted new batteries and stealthily turned on the recorder to make sure it was working. It appeared to be on, but to make sure I pressed “menu.” It seemed like a safe button. And that was when TheHippie’s drunk voice came booming out of the recorder, filling the silent classroom with the sounds of her throaty voice as I recorded it “for fun” last Friday.

Professor: And so, when reporting on crime scenes, make sure to never imply guilt until-
ThePeach: Oh god!!
Professor: *cough*
ThePeach: *starts mashing buttons furiously*
ThePeach: AH! Why won’t it stop?? *mashes buttons*
Spaz: Press “stop,” idiot!
Professor: um…
ThePeach: Shutup, Spaz! *slams recorder onto desk* WHY??
ThePeach: *finally locates stop button* Oh, wow. Ok. Sorry about that.
Professor: *eyeballs Peach* Also, never report the name of a young offender-
Spaz: *whispers* Wow. You’re stupid. That is totally something I would have done.
ThePeach: *whispers* Shutup, Spaz.

So, ya. Not a great start. It was a small consolation that Spaz was later publicly humiliated by the same prof for mis-spelling Stephen Harper in her last article.

Reporting FAIL.

Also, I would say blogging instead of writing the article that’s due in less than 5 hours also = Reporting FAIL.

I'm gonna quit and get a job at Quiznos.


Monday, September 29, 2008

ThePeach Helps TigerCat Dodge a Bullet; is a Modern-Day Hero

In the past few years my Mom’s gift-giving skills have really gone down hill. I believe it began the year she gave me a bright purple, suede business jacket for Christmas. The problem is that she puts a lot of effort and money into buying these gifts, so returning them or even suggesting an exchange would make me the world’s worst daughter (more so). The excitement begins as soon as the present is placed in front of me. Her eyes get bright. She starts swinging her little legs. She might even tear up a little if it’s a particularly meaningful gift, like that time she got me the giant red poet’s blouse, straight out of the renaissance.

TigerCat doesn’t get off any easier. My mom actually cried happy tears on TigerCat’s graduation day when TC unwrapped her gift box and found a giant emerald bracelet inside, perfect for an 80-year old or maybe a member of the British monarch. You can’t return gifts like these. You have to keep them, pretend to love them, and dutifully break them out at holiday gatherings. The guilt about how much money our Mom spends on these items is palpable.

So, TigerCat and I are both a little scared as our birthday week approaches. I have to do apprenticeships in the winter, so I fully expect to receive a $500 business suit from Talbots or Laura; navy blue, with pleated legs and some kind of gold braided trim. If I’m lucky she’ll throw in some silk, nautical-print scarves. Land ho!

I had brunch with my Grandpa on Sunday. As we waited for our orders, he discussed gift ideas for TigerCat:

Bobba: Well, Peach, it’s almost birthday week!
ThePeach: Heh. Yep.
Bobba: I’m not sure what to get your sister yet.
ThePeach: Gift certificates.
Bobba: Well, I asked your mom for help.
ThePeach: Oh no. Dear god, no.
Bobba: She had a suggestion.
ThePeach: *mutters* God give us strength.
Bobba: She suggested I get your sister a nice muff.
ThePeach: *spits out coffee*
Bobba: A nice, warm muff for winter.
ThePeach: You mean…like in the place of gloves?
Bobba: Maybe a fur one.
ThePeach: As in, hey, it’s 1947, let’s go caroling in our muffs and stoles??
Bobba: Your mom thought it would be nice for her to wear to work. In the winter.
Bobba: No. Not yet. But I was looking at-
Bobba: Oh. Dear. So, then what should I-
ThePeach: Gift certificates.

Of course, you know this means that now *I* will be receiving a nice, fur muff for my birthday. It will probably cost $300, and I will never be able to return it, and I’ll end up giving it to Milo to use as a cat-version of a blow-up doll. Milo is going to kitty-bang the muff (heh) and I will have to spend my birthday dressed as a menopausal sailor.

I am the BEST sister in the world.


Saturday, September 27, 2008


*I ate fish sticks for dinner. *

That almost counts as meat.

Also, last night TheCrazy was in town and we did many redbull/vodkas and ended up aggressively making out with each other on the dance floor of a swanky bar as her husband watched. As in, she tried to take my pants off in the bar. And boobies were touched. Why do I turn into a massive bull-dyke everytime I drink with her? What does this say about me? I need a penis, stat. Clarification: not as in, I need to grow a penis so that I can fuck girls. No. Not like that. I mean as in I require some hetero sex.

Drunk Peach is fun. But drunk Peach is dangerous. I need a Designated Conscience (DC) to be by my side at all times. Any takers? I might punch you in the ear if your suggestions include putting on my pants, putting down the drink, and not raping my friends; but there's like a 75% chance that I'll hump you. The choice is yours.

Do I hear some Indigo Girls in the background?


Friday, September 26, 2008

The Hippying, part 2

I just realized that I haven't eaten a single meat product since Monday. It's mainly a function of being poor and too busy to cook, but still.

If I don't eat part of an animal soon, I predict I will be dead by Sunday.

Help me.