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.