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.

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!!

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?
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*

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.