Friday, July 31, 2009

Into the woods

Camping camping camping!!

I’m slightly excited.

TigerCat should get home from work any minute now, and then we’re taking off for Silver Lake. We have a car full of bug spray, a cooler full of meat and vodka, and a Tupperware container full of smokeable joy.

I’m dressed in my camping uniform: tight tshirt and lulu capris. Hey, there might be some burly mens the next site over and I’d like to at least showcase my ass. Why not fuck in the woods with strangers? Actually, our neighbours will probably be senior citizens and the only thing I’ll do in the woods is pass out in a pile of my own vom, but at least my ass will look good doing it.

Also, I packed a first aid kit for when I accidentally light myself on fire or cut off a finger using the axe my grandpa forced us to pack. Nothing a little polysporin can’t fix, right?

In exciting news, TheCrazy and TheCastrato have a site 3 down from us. Eeeeee! We’re probably all going to die. Or I’ll have sex with TheCrazy. She’s very sensual.

See you on the other side, bitches.


Thursday, July 30, 2009

The Fattening

My sister has just one goal this summer: to fatten me. It is her only wish. And she’s putting up a solid fight, despite my best efforts to remain a breakup waif. She taunts me with my favourite foods and jokes that she’s adding lard to my coffee, but she might actually be doing it. She’s a tricksy bitch, that one.

And she has many weapons.

I arrived in Universitytown yesterday afternoon to get ready for our weekend camping trip. I wanted to go for a nice, long run when I got here, but instead I met my sister for lunch at her hotel restaurant and allowed her to convince me that fries, artisan grilled cheese and ham, and chocolate bread pudding drizzled with fresh cream is an acceptable lunch. All I was able to do after consuming this meal was stumble like a drunk to her house and pass out for 3 hours, sweating cheese the entire time. When I woke up she was standing eagerly at the foot of my bed, asking me what I wanted to do for dinner.

She’s like a chipper caloric demon.

I told her I couldn’t even think about food, so we drove to dollarama to purchase more crap for our camping trip. On the way back we drove past an all-you-can eat- sushi restaurant.

Guess what happened.

I woke up this morning and tried to find the multigrain bread my sister swore she had left out for me, but it was nowhere to be found. The fridge was stocked, however, with muffins. Eff. After this I decided I really should finally go for that run. Maybe I’d run 12km. That would show her!

I opened the curtains and saw that the sun was glistening like crystals off the water in the pool in her courtyard. Eff. So I lay in the sun and tanned until I looked like a migrant worker. BUT then I swam laps for 20 minutes. SUCKA! I could have gone much longer, but an old man had pulled a chair up right beside me and was just kind of…watching…the entire time. Just the two of us in the pool. Me in my white string bikini, and him in his gold chains and oil-soaked paunch.

I came upstairs and showered, pleased with my 20 minutes of fitness. As I washed the memory of the greasy old man off of me, I contemplated what to do with my afternoon. Perhaps I’d go to Starbucks and get a grande and do some work. Skip lunch entirely, since I damn well knew that ho sister of mine would stuff me full of carbs and lard when she got home.

I stepped out of the shower and scurried to my bedroom to throw on my lulus. Suddenly there was a brisk knock at my door. I screamed. TigerCat walked in with wide eyes and a large smile. She was holding a brownie the size of my head.

“I just went to the market on my lunch break. I thought you’d like this brownie. Here, I’ll just leave it on this plate in your room. I have to go back to work now.”

Match point.


ps - spanx, seester.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

ThePeach's grandpa offers relationship advice

I had lunch with my grandpa today. He’s stepped up our visits to about one per week ever since my sister told him I was dumped. He’s trying to help in his own way, like by taking me for long drives to look at wild flowers, making me homemade jam, and sharpening an axe for me to take camping. That last one was nerve racking to watch – an old man shuffling around the garage with a fresh blade. Someone could have lost an eye.

Anyway, my grandpa knew I didn’t want to talk about my breakup, so he never brought it up. He just knew that I knew that he knew, and that was where we left it. I think he tried to bring it up once, in the car, but when he reached over to touch my arm he accidentally grazed my left boob and neither of us talked for the next 30 minutes.

Anyway, today was the day he finally cracked. At Montana’s restaurant. I had a mouth full of fries when he delicately put down his fried fish, looked me in the eye, and said:

“So. Did FauxHawk cut the cord, or did you?”

Oh jesus.

So then I had to explain my breakup to my 82-year-old grandpa as diplomatically as possible, in a Montana’s, in a LOUD AND SLOW voice. I’m pretty sure the line cooks now know that HE SAID HE WASN’T HAPPY ANYMORE AND I THINK HE HAD ISSUES WITH DETACHMENT.

My grandpa nodded slowly and sympathetically and then, in his slow lilting voice, offered me some advice.

“Just be careful not to rebound too much, sweetheart.”

I think my grandpa just warned me not to become a whore. Owned again.


Monday, July 27, 2009

Babysitters Club

My romantic life might have leprosy, but I have managed to excel in at least one area of personal relationships: friendships. I don’t want to brag, but I might have the best friends that anyone has ever had. And this becomes more apparent when one gets dumped and the friends start coming out of the woodwork to put you back together and medicate you with jager. Ya, I’m feeling a little emotional right now and it’s probably 50% because of my uterus and 50% due to the 3 day bender I just experienced, but still. I love my bitches.

I haven’t been awake very long and it’s 4pm. Why is the room moving? My liver aches.

Where was I?

Right. Friends.

I’m somewhat disastrous in the best of circumstances. I don’t pay my bills. I can’t drive. I once left a bowl of tuna salad in the fridge for 16 months because it got mouldy, came to life, and I was scared to touch it. My sister discovered the tuna beast one day while she was looking for ketchup. By that point it had hardened into a solid black puck. She screamed and made me get rid of it while she watched with fearful, judgy eyes. I cried.

My point is that, in the best of times, I’m not sure how I get through life. And now, in a time of emotional upheaval, I pretty much need people to keep me from dying 24/7. I call them my babysitters.

On Friday I was feeling slightly overwhelmed about the world. Due to a case of the sads, I had been in bed for about 3 days. BadInfluence staged an intervention. He drove over, picked me up, took me to buy cat food so I could stop feeding Milo Kraft Singles, took me to the LCBO to buy my medicine, took me to Starbucks to take the suicide edge off, and then brought me back home and literally cleaned my apartment top to bottom. I’m talking shook out the carpets and beat the couch cushions. He had to sweep the floor 6 times. It’s kind of humbling to see your breakup mess through another person’s eyes.

BadInfluence: Why do you have three dirty sweatshirts in a pile in the middle of the floor?
ThePeach: To hide the crap underneath.
BadInfluence: *picks up sweaters* Why do you have approximately 37 dollars in nickels, ten crumbled receipts, and a mouldy coffee mug hidden under all these sweaters in the middle of your floor?
ThePeach: To hide the cat puke stain underneath.
BadInfluence: *sweeps aside the crap* How long has this puke been here?
ThePeach: Two weeks.
BadInfluence: I really kind of hate you right now.

And yet he scrubbed out the puke stain and put the loose change in a gravy boat on my dresser. Heart.

QueenB and Workohol came to visit from TheBigCity for the weekend. They took me out, fed me, stocked my fridge, stocked my liquor cabinet, and scrubbed my kitchen from floor to ceiling. Even the inside of the fridge. They had to go to the store to buy cleaning products and dish rags. What is wrong with me? I have a sickness.

We had an awesome weekend. We went out both nights and spent Saturday on a patio drinking Sangria and being surly. My two favourite things. I love going out with those two because they don’t take shit from anyone. They’re getting drinks bought for them by the hottest guys in the bar and then telling them to run along like good boys while I’m getting ass-raped on the dance floor by an Albanian with a pot belly. I finally detached myself after he grabbed my hips, thrust my ass onto his Albanian erection, and whispered: “Yeah. I know you like that. I have a big package.”

No thank you, sir.

My favourite was when we left the bar and went to get pizza. Some guy – not unattractive – came up to QueenB on the street and literally started serenading her with James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful.” QueenB glared at him, barked “ARE YOU HOMELESS?” and then marched away. Love her.

My bitches had to drive back home yesterday, but not before they left me with a fridge full of vegetables and every dish in my house sparkling.

I was sad again after they left. It didn’t help that I saw FauxHawk for lunch. I know. I’m a masochist. I don’t want to talk about it.

I was back in bed by 7:30pm with no intention to get up for at least 48 hours. And that’s when BadInfluence came back over with a stack of DVDs and the threat of a punch to the face if I didn’t at least put on sweatpants and relocate to the couch. So I listened to him and wound up drinking gin until 5am. He always knows exactly what I need to buck up.

The thing about breakup depressions is that, sometimes, they’re kind of hilarious. BadInfluence has seen some pathetic shit out of me lately. Like when he was helping me clean and asked why I have a line of pillows down the middle of the bed.

ThePeach: Um, you know…it feels like a person is in there with me.
BadInfluence: …*screams with laughter*
ThePeach: I hate you.

Yesterday was a gem. He was hungry so I looked in the fridge to find him a snack. I pulled out a tiny chocolate bar with exactly one small bite missing. It was sitting on a large plate. I guess it looked kind of pathetic.

ThePeach: Would you like a bite of my chocolate bar?
BadInfluence:…I think this is the saddest thing I’ve seen in your house so far. And I’ve seen a lot of sad things here lately.
ThePeach: *looks at the tiny chocolate bar on the massive plate*…*screams with laughter*

We literally rolled on the floor laughing for about 10 minutes. Tears were streaming down my face. Jesus. I really am pathetic.

I woke up this morning (ie. 2pm) with a headache like Lucifer himself was gnawing at my brainstem. I couldn’t even stomach coffee. I had to hold onto the side of my desk and take deep breaths just so I wouldn’t fall over. And then of course I checked my facebook. Oh, look. A public wall post from FauxHawk’s mother.

“Hi, Peach. I was very sorry to hear FauxHawk’s news. Please take care.”

And this is why I drink. And also a shining example of why no one over age 45 should have facebook.

My life is becoming a comedy of errors. I can’t even wake up at 2pm with a raging hangover – like any respectable person – and have a normal morning. I guess this is why I have a blog. My life is not normal. By the way, my readership has nearly doubled since I got dumped.

You sick bastards.


Monday, July 20, 2009


It’s starting. The obsession. I can’t help it.

Ever since I went to Vancouver last month I’ve become one of those annoying people who can’t stop talking about it. Every time it gets oppressively muggy here in CapitalCity I say “ugh, it doesn’t get like this in Vancouver” to anyone who will listen. I can’t eat sushi here anymore because it tastes like stale corpse compared to the buttery fish of Vancouver. I even wear leggings around the house and think “if this were Vancouver, this would be acceptable attire.”

Fuck. I kind of hate myself.

But I can’t help it. Have you ever just connected with a place so easily and naturally that it immediately felt like home – but better? MortalCombat is going through the same thing with South Africa, where she is living for the summer. We can ache together when she gets back.

Now that I’m suddenly single after 5 years and have no attachments, save for a highly portable animal, there’s really nothing stopping me from packing up and hauling my ass back west after I graduate in April. The “plan,” a.k.a. FauxHawk’s life which he penciled me into to suit him, was to remain in CapitalCity until we died. He grew up here and has no desire to go anywhere else. He wanted us to get a big waspy house, raise little jew babies, and spend every weekend with his mother. And I suppose this sounded ok to me, but not ideal. Love makes you whack.

But now I just want to get the shit out of here. I’m young and I need more adventures. I basically have the most portable job possible. And now I have friends and family out west. Why wouldn’t I go?

Also, the mens are hot out there and Peach needs to get laid. Tossed around. Slapped.

Lately the universe has been giving me signs:

1. Mouthy family of disabled child
Last week I was in Universitytown and I went to Starbucks to guzzle coffee and relax with a book. I had been enjoying the silence for about 5 minutes when the loudest, most annoying family ever sat down beside me. The mother was really shrill but the daughter – the fucking daughter! – would not shut the fuck up. She kept yelling and creating a ruckus, and I just buried my face in book and fantasized about throwing my coffee in her face. I’m not child-friendly.

This lasted about 10 minutes before I looked up with the intention to glare them into shame.

The daughter had Downs Syndrome.

Well, shit.

She was also kind of really cute, except for her unibrow. She beamed at me and waved, and I waved back and mouthed “hi” silently.

“HHHHIIIIIII!” she screamed, scaring the shit out of me and everything with ears in a 10 mile radius. I’m pretty sure she startled an old man outside into dropping his cane and stumbling on the sidewalk, but I can’t be sure. Sometimes old people just trip.

Of course the shrill mother took this as an invitation to prop her head on her elbow on my table and start telling me her life story. Her daughter's name was Catherine. She was 5. She too lived in CapitalCity. They were here for a vacation. She worked in the civil service, but had a journalism degree. Oh, I had a journalism degree? Where did I work? She couldn’t find work in CapitalCity because she wasn’t bilingual. I wasn’t bilingual? Well, I needed to move or I would never find work. I needed to get the hell out of CapitalCity before it ruined me, just as it ruined her.

This is where her silent and stoic husband piped in.

“Go west. Move to Vancouver. You won’t regret it.”

Thank you, family of loud disabled child, for my serendipitous Vancouver sign #1.

2. Dreams
I’ve been having a lot of dreams about moving. Mostly about my future sexy Vancouver apartment, which I cannot afford but has great views. And large windows which my new sexy Vancouver boyfriend likes to push me up against.


Last night, though, I dreamed about FauxHawk. Of course, fucking brain. I dreamed that we were married and I was in labour with his baby, and right after I pushed it out I found out he was cheating on me with some latino girl. And he loved her. He was sorry. Good luck with the baby.

Then I dreamed that I went to Universitytown to visit TigerCat again, and FauxHawk and I agreed to meet up for a coffee at his place, and when I got there his bedroom was covered in bras. Huge ones. Because he’s been fucking big-tittied whores since we broke up.

I woke up at 6am completely pissed off. Fuck! Why were the bras so fucking big??

But then I fell back asleep and dreamed that I sold all of my possessions and moved to Vancouver and had an awesome apartment and awesome life. It was a peaceful dream.

So, in one night I dreamed awful, angry dreams about my ex and then peaceful awesome dreams about my new life.

Thank you, brain, for my serendipitous Vancouver sign #2.

3. Ricardo
The night before FauxHawk lovingly broke up with me over the phone on my last day of vacation in Vancouver (oh yes. Thanks for that, asshole), my mom and I had a really nice dinner at the Mediterranean restaurant across the street from her condo. It was right on the water in False Creek, the sun was setting over the Granville Bridge, and the entire sky was pink. I had just got back from climbing Grouse Mountain with TheQuack and was feeling pretty awesome about life in general. And then I saw our waiter.

Tall, dark skin, and the kind of deep brown eyes that you want staring into your soul while he fucks you retarded. A gorgeous, gorgeous man specimen. When he came to take our order I realized he was very Italian. Oh, swoon. And my mom pointed out that he specifically asked for our table, probably because he wanted to meet me. I still hadn’t showered after mountain climbing and looked a little mangy, so I thought not. Until he came over and smiled at me and I thought “Well…maybe.”

Take me, sir.

I was with my mom and I was still in love with FauxHawk, stupid Peach, so I didn’t try anything coy. Gorgeous Italian waiter would have to remain a figment of my fantasies.

I just talked to my mom this morning. She went to a party at the restaurant last night. I casually asked her if the hot waiter was there.

“Oh yes. He sure was. His name is Ricardo. I think he was wondering where you were.”

Ricardo. Ricaaaardo. Yep. That’s a name I can scream out while being pressed up against a sheet window. I think a gorgeous Italian waiter with dimples and an accent would make a great rebound lay. Yes? Maybe I’ll start looking up flights.

As long as I don’t have to bring him back to my mom’s.

So, there you have it. Three signs that I should move.

And fifty that I need to get laid.


Sunday, July 19, 2009

Fatherhood: in Two Vignettes


My Dad drove me to the vet last week. “Depressed” doesn’t even begin to cover my mood at the time. I loved my Universitytown vet and, more importantly, they loved Milo. He’s been going there since he was just a mangy fur-baby, climbing on the vet’s head and jumping into cupboards and galloping through the hallways like a wolf with two or three vet-techs chasing behind him.

They always gave him treats and a little bandana after every visit, which he would immediately rip off and destroy, and then attack me out of anger for making him wear it.
So, I was pretty upset at the prospect of finding a new vet for my monster. Plus, you know, the whole officially moving on from my life with FauxHawk part didn’t help.

I found a vet pretty close to my apartment. My Dad drove me so that I wouldn’t be that girl walking 10 blocks down Main Street with a cat in a giant purple carrier. He walked me into the office, took one look at the old man in the waiting room holding a half-dead cat under his arm, and said he was going to go for a walk.

I met my Dad 30 minutes later, and I had a very angry and now rabies-free cat jumping around in his carrier. My Dad was waving around some kind of pamphlet and talking really fast. It turns out, in the 30 minutes that I set him free in my neighbourhood, he had found a pot shop. I’ve lived here for a year and didn’t know one existed.

I took a look at the pamphlet in his excited hands. It was a seed order form. My Dad is now going to buy pot seeds and grow his own, maybe at his friend’s cottage.

Maybe to other people this would sound awesome, but I don’t feel like I’m at the point yet where I can ask my Dad for some of his home-grown pot.

Then he took me to Starbucks and bought me a different kind of drug, and took me back home.


TigerCat and I have planned a camping trip for the long weekend coming up. It’s going to be ridiculous. I can’t even tell you how happy I am at the prospect of drinking in the woods and eating cheese dogs until I puke. I’ll probably wind up setting my hair on fire and getting poison ivy on my muffin, but I’m still looking forward to it.

The other day I told my Dad about our upcoming assventure. His response?

Dad: Do you need, you know, any stuff?
ThePeach: Um...stuff?
Dad: Weed, or maybe Hash. I can get you either. Not that I, you know, sell the stuff, but I have people.
ThePeach:…you want to sell your daughter Hash?
Dad: I’m just saying that I can.

When did this happen? When did he get this comfortable with me? I always suspected he was a pot-head, like that time I called him and he was watching Family Guy and talking about time travel. Or that time I stayed at his place and he came home at 1am with the reddest eyes I’ve ever seen on a living human and tried to make me order him a pizza. But he’s never been this open about it.

It’s kind of uncomfortable. I can’t decide if my Dad is awesome or if I should call social services.

Also, hash is a big NO. The first and only time I smoked hash I wound up having an out of body experience and came to in the midst of gorging on some strange girl’s birthday cake in my dorm. Like, I was sitting in the middle of her birthday party and polishing off my fourth piece while everyone just kind of stared at me with their mouths wide open. I avoided the common room after that.

Anyway, maybe I’ll call my Dad tonight and see if he wants to drive me to the grocery store. I’m out of toilet paper.

I’ve been using Kleenex for 3 days.


Thursday, July 16, 2009

The best vacation in all the land.

Let me preface this blog by saying how awesome my sister is for baby sitting me for the past three days. Sorry I showed my appreciation for your hospitality by leaving waffle batter all over your kitchen and keeping you awake until 4am on a week night.

I’m damaged. It gives me certain allowances.

On Tuesday TigerCat convinced me to come to UniversityTown to stay with her for a while. I was hesitant to return – again – to the land of FauxHawk, but TigerCat lured me with food. Like an animal.

She picked me up at the train station and took me to her house, where she had curry waiting for me on the stove. Tashty. Then the wine came out, and TheCrazy migrated over, and we all got drunk and watched yet more Vampire porn. It was much better than the night I had planned for myself in CapitalCity, namely crying alone on my couch, drinking a mickey of vodka, and singing show tunes to the cat.

I fell asleep in TigerCat’s guest room to the sounds of the lake lapping on the shores below my window.

I woke up, hungover, and wrote half of my freelance article. Then I met TigerCat and CockDoc for fancy lunch at the posh hotel where TigerCat works. I ate mass quantities of cheese and talked loudly about amputee porn, something I had discovered on YouPorn and was quite thrilled about.

Then I went for a walk downtown, reclaiming the city I lived in for eight years, three of which were before I ever knew FauxHawk existed. I saw two of my favourite Universitytown hobos and, to my delight, an amputee wearing short-shorts. She should consider porn.

I then had the most indulgent afternoon of my life. I had gotten paid for my last round of articles earlier in the week, so I finally had my breakup allowance. First I bought a lulu sweater and a pair of mesh lulu thong underwear, in the vain hopes that someday, somewhere, someone might see my lady parts again.

Then I bought tickets for the Harry Potter movie, which came out that night. I squealed with nerd glee as I put the tickets for me and TigerCat in my purse for later. I also salivated at the thought of all the chemical butter I would consume in a few short hours.

Then I got myself a Starbucks and read for an hour in the sun. Then I got a pedicure in the vain hopes that someday, somewhere, someone might want to lick my feet and slap me around a little. Maybe?

Then I met TigerCat for Harry Potter, which was so good that it made me have a nerdgasm. Then we went home and TheCrazy came over again. TigerCat had to go to bed, but TheCrazy and I got sloppy drunk and were soon joined by CockDoc, who brought out the pot and suggested that we make some waffles. The kitchen is now covered in batter and little bits of fried dough. We smoked, ate, and drank until 4am. We discovered a new game, which I will call “spelling body functions.”

For instance, if you had to spell the sound that a fart makes? Phhhhrrrrt? We also spelled the sound of poo, queefs, and the sound when you pull out after sex. Shlllrrr?

God. Pot.

At 9am I woke up, still half baked, and remembered that my article was due before noon. I carefully wrote the rest, sent it in, found out from CockDoc that we had kept TigerCat awake until 4am and she was not impressed with the state of her waffle iron, and went back to bed for an hour. When I woke up I had an email from my editor to tell me how much he loved my article and to give me a new assignment. A series on Canadian cheese. My job…I can’t even…I love…life. It’s the series I was born to write, baby! Also, he paid me $475 for the article I just sent in. I’m going to freelance until I’m too old to use my arms to type, and even then I’ll maybe get one of those setups where you can blow into a straw to spell words. I. Love. My. Job.

Then I emailed TigerCat to apologize for keeping her up, and asked her to please make me some Tuna Noodle Casserole for dinner as soon as she gets home. The perks of getting dumped are endless. I have the best sister in the world, maybe even across time.

Then I went outside and lay by the pool for 2 hours, crisping to a shade best described as “a fair negro.” I also swam laps for about 20 minutes, which constitutes my first official exercise since the heart break.

Honestly, has anyone ever had a better three days? I challenge you. I feel like I finally shook off the undead. It’s going to suck to go back to CapitalCity alone, but I do have my cheese series to look forward to.

Maybe I’ve turned a corner. Next up: whoring?

Foot licking optional.


Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Reason #3749 that I love my job

I woke up at 11am still half drunk. I stumbled into the living room, tripped over about 20 empty Guinness cans and a stack of Nintendo games, and dry heaved cheeseburgers. I pulled a hooded sweatshirt on over my boy-short underwear and - half naked - made some coffee. Then I sat cross-legged on the couch, moved an empty gin bottle out of the seat cushions, picked up the phone and had a 20 minute interview with the Chief Medical Officer for the 2010 Vancouver Olympic Games. Then I typed up my notes, which I will write into a story for my health and fitness series later. You know, when I’ve sobered up and maybe put on pants.

Then I burped poutine. Then I smelled myself and decided a shower was a must. Then I lay on the couch. I don’t plan to get up for at least 4 hours. Not until the gin-sweats cease.

Just your typical day as a freelance journalist.

I’ve already made space for my Pulitzer.


Monday, July 13, 2009


Have you ever been so depressed that you can’t move? I literally can’t get dressed some days. I’m trying really hard not to be the sad, pathetic breakup person, but some days you beat the couch and some days the couch beats you. I guess the end of a 5 year relationship isn’t easy, even if everyone – including my grandfather – is relieved to hear about it.

I’ve been watching a lot of True Blood, a tv show about sexy vampires. ThePilot commented that he thinks I secretly wish that I was undead. I looked down at myself, lying on the couch, bone-thin, dark circles under my eyes, and responded “I think I am undead.”

But don’t despair. I’m not eyeing the knives or the shower rod or anything like that. I’ve accepted that this is just how it’s going to be for a little while. I think I can work “crazy.” I can make it hot.

Like this morning, when I had a brief fit of positive energy, put on a bikini, and danced to Katy Perry in my bedroom for 45 minutes. Immediately following that I had a 10-minute cry-fit, but then I made coffee and read Harry Potter on my balcony. Accio dignity!

And now I’m going to go get sloppy drunk with TheCrip and let him force-feed me cheeseburgers.

Because sometimes the cure to depression is vodka coolers and grilled meats.


Saturday, July 11, 2009

An open letter to: Christ, Jesus H.

Dear Jesus, or God, as it may be,

I would never think to question your all-knowing infinite wisdom and your ultimate guidance for a mere mortal’s - my own - life. I have never questioned your plan, in all your knowingness and power, to make my life as hilarious as possible. And I have never expressed anger or even dismay at some of the seriously effed shizzle you tend to send my way on a daily basis. Like my FAIDS cat, who just yesterday ate my leftover no-name kraft dinner while I wasn’t looking and then later vomited whole macaroni noodles onto my bed. I can laugh at this.

But if you could please, for the love of FUCK, stop sending flash rainstorms unto me every time I decide to leave the goddamn house, rainstorms that only last as long as I must walk – umbrella’less, because you lure me outside with sunshine, you coy little saviour – to my destination, and then leave me literally drenched, hair plastered to my scalp, clothes stuck to my malnourished body, in the middle of a GODDAMN STARBUCKS FOR THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK, I would really appreciate it.

I get it, Jesus. I really do. I was dumped and now it’s hilarious to rain on me every time I leave the house. You really enjoy pathetic fallacy. So do I. Maybe you took English Lit in undergrad, too.

But every good artist knows when to quit, Jesus. And your rain shtick has become predictable. And I swear to…you…I am going to really lose it if I dart into the starbucks like a drowned rat one more time, wipe the stream of water out of my eyes, and see the sun come out.

While I have you on the line, please don’t send me another FAIDS cat. Or gynecologist boyfriend.

And please don’t strike me with lightening on the walk home.

In the name of gin, I pray. Amen.


Friday, July 10, 2009

One Week

Well, I survived a week. It’s been pretty shitty, but I think my body is starting to heal. Because today, after a week of not eating…anything…I got a craving for some motherfucking Kraft Dinner. I could only eat like ¼ of the box (heh…box), but the important thing is that my body is once again craving chemical cheese.

Things are looking up.

Also, some of you might be wondering just what kind of crazy shit a drunk and single Peach has been getting up to now that she’s free of the chains of monogamy. I’m sure you’re excited to hear about the whoring, drinking, and gonorrhea that I’ll likely experience in the coming months.

Well hold onto your hats, bitches, because the craziness is already starting. On Wednesday I got sloppy drunk with a friend and we played Super Mario Brothers 3 – on original NES – for six hours. We beat the game. All eight levels, no warping allowed. Saved Princess Toadstool.

Oh my god. I’m never getting laid again, am I?

Hymen for sale.


Wednesday, July 08, 2009

The way you make me feel (you really turn me on)

Michael Jackson just moon-walked the ugly right out of my heart. Temporarily, at least.

I’m really glad that I can still count on my semi-naked bedroom solo dance parties to cheer me up. I’ve just spent the last 20 minutes pumping the MJ and dancing around in my underwear like a freak. I have to say, my new breakup-chic body has some sweet dance moves. Although I guess eventually I’ll start eating again and that will all go to shit.

I’m an old whore, so maybe I love MJ more than some of my friends who might be reading this and thinking I’ve gone insane. My mom raised me on this shit. I was doing little kicky-dances and moon walks before the first grade. Shamone!

Yesterday I went for a long walk to get off the couch for the first time in 3 days. I brought MJs greatest hits on my ipod in honour of his memorial service. My eyes welled up as I listened to the little 10-year-old guy belt out “Ben,” and I smiled every time he shouted a “Woo hoo hoo!”

Today I’m a full-on dancing machine.

Last night I lay on the couch for 5 hours and drank wine out of a juice glass until I was drunk enough to face going to bed alone.

This seems like an improvement.


Tuesday, July 07, 2009

ThePeach wears pants; the pants

I have to go out and run some errands down Main Street. I haven’t done laundry since…2007. I’m out of thong underwear. I cannot face restrictive pants today, so I am wearing lulus. With boy-short underwear. You can probably see my underwear line from outer space. I sat on the bed for a long time in my boy shorts, debating the pros and cons of jeans vs lulus in public. The lulus won.

Life is hard.

On the bright side, I had my first single girl triumph last night!

Single Girl Triumph #1:

Located the fuse box in my apartment for the first time, in the dark, switched the faulty switch, restored power to my kitchen, and salvaged the microwave popcorn.

I think I just achieved manhood. I’m ready for my penis now.


Monday, July 06, 2009

I'm not drunk. I'm sedated for my pain.

I’m on the train. Apparently I spend a lot of time in transit. There’s a life-meaning metaphor in there somewhere, but I’m not quite at the hippy self-analysis phase yet, so I’ll let it lie.

Let’s just leave it at I’m on the train.

I’ve pretty much been baseline drunk for the past four days, so I’m a little confused about what’s going on or, really, why I’m on a train right now. Also, I discovered a really fantastic weight-loss method. I exist solely on a diet of coffee, wine and gin. Occasionally TigerCat forces me to eat, or I suppose I’d be dead right now. I’ve already lost five pounds. It’s not like I don’t want to eat…I’d just rather drink.

The awesome thing about breakups is that people don’t judge your alcoholism. No longer deemed a sickness but a coping mechanism, friends and even family are more than happy to pour you another and drape a blanket over you when you pass out on their couch.

I plan to milk this for as long as possible. My relationship with FauxHawk was five years long…I figure I can acceptably be a drunk until at least Christmas.

Baby needs her medicine.

While we’re on the subject of the things I need to live right now, let’s discuss money. I think the government needs to create a breakup allowance. Think about it for a minute. They give money to people for far sillier reasons, like those who are too fat to work. This should be an offshoot of basic health care. I am in pain. I need a lulu sweatshirt and a pedicure. I need a train ticket to Toronto and London and plane tickets to Halifax, Vancouver and the UK so that I can visit all my favourites. Unfortunately, when I checked my bank balance this morning I had negative 18 dollars. Negative eighteen. And I haven’t even paid rent yet this month.

It’s a good thing I’m not eating or I might have to roast the cat.

TigerCat drove to CapitalCity on Saturday to check in on me. She walked in, took a look at me, deemed me too thin, and went straight to the store to buy provisions. She came back with – I’m not kidding – bagels, muffins, grapes, cheese, a baguette, kraft dinner, two-bite brownies and cookies. Good sister. I ate the cheese.

FauxHawk and I are trying to be friends. It might be the worst idea ever, but I’m nothing if not a nihilist. Neither of us knows how to untangle five years of life together. His mom sent me an email forward today of jokes about marital disputes. Something tells me she doesn’t know yet.

FauxHawk was taking care of Milo while I was in Vancouver, so on Saturday he drove him down to CapitalCity for me. The cat hates me for leaving him and has been tearing through my apartment like a wolf ever since. He stops only to poop and glare at me.

FauxHawk stayed for three hours. We sat on the couch, mostly in silence, and he put his arms around me while I lay my head on his shoulder, in that nook just under his jaw where I seem to fit so perfectly. The same spot where I used to rest my head at night, my naked arms draped over his chest, feeling him breathe. We cried and listened to the sounds of the rain hitting the pavement outside. There wasn’t much to say.

When my sister showed up, FauxHawk had left, but I was still curled up on the couch. My shirt smelled like him.

Guess I’ll add it to the “burn” pile.

Other items that must go in the burn pile include the toiletries that FauxHawk left in my bathroom. I’m a little worried that, if I don’t dispose of them, I’m going to get drunk one night and try to eat his deodorant or something. You know the scene in the 90s movie “Down to You” where Freddie Prinze Junior has to get his stomach pumped because he drinks his ex-gf’s shampoo? That’s a low I’d rather avoid, thanks.

Yesterday TigerCat had to leave, but I guess she was worried about the deodorant, too, because she literally kidnapped me and brought me with her. She gave me ten minutes to pack a bag and leave food for the cat. I said I would like to do something random so she took me – wait for it – berry picking. I’m not kidding. We picked 4 litres of strawberries and a pint of raspberries. My hands are covered in scratches and there are still bits of hay stuck to my feet. Also, there was a…disabled person…talking loudly….in the row beside us the entire time. That’s all I’ll say about that.

Randomness: achieved.

After the berry picking, it hit me that going home with TigerCat meant going to Universitytown. I panicked and started insisting that she drive me home, but by then it was too late. Me and 4l of strawberries were trapped.

But TigerCat took care of me. When we got to her place she ordered $70 worth of Chinese food, cracked open the wine, invited over TheCrazy, and we watched five hours of the HBO series “True Blood.” By the way, HotMess – you know how we needed a new tv show that’s full of hot sex? Watch True Blood. I want my rebound lay to be with a vampire.

So now I’m on the train back home. I’m sad, but there’s a bottle of wine in my fridge and I plan to stream the remainder of season 1 of True Blood until I pass out.

TheCrazy, Tigercat and I were all huddled on the couch together when we opened our fortune cookies. TigerCat is going to go on a long trip. TheCrazy is fortunate to be so flexible.

My fortune: You need to get in touch with your inner feelings.

Good to know the universe still has a sense of humour.


Friday, July 03, 2009

From the Skies

I’m somewhere over the prairies. My flight home from Vancouver left just over two hours ago and I have two to go. I didn’t sleep at all last night and there’s not one, not two, but three screaming babies sitting in my section of the plane. Infanticide never seemed so possible.

I’m much sadder than I thought I’d be to leave the west coast. I hate sounding like a hippie lesbian, here, but I honestly feel like a different person after spending eight days in Vancouver. I’m more myself. Maybe ‘myself’ is a huge, lazy BC pot-head, but that’s a life choice I can gladly accept. I’m moving to Vancouver, mark my word. One year. WeeOne and I shook on it and then lit a joint while watching the sunset to seal the deal. You can’t turn your back on pot vows.

My mom and I went to Granville Island for the Canada Day celebrations yesterday afternoon. It was hot and sunny and I was rocking my Beau’s Brewery tshirt. Ya, the same one I mysteriously woke up wearing after my last blackout drunk night in Universitytown. Happy Canada Day, I’m a fucking drunk and I will advertise it across my tits.

We went to an international festival, and the air was thick with curry and music. My mom spotted a palm reader and pleaded with me to get my fortune told. I don’t buy that horse shit one bit, but my mom was paying so why not placate her? I sat in the stool and let the old gypsy lady run her fingers over my hand.

“You are going to live a very long life. Very long. And no illness.”

Wrong, bitch. I’m going to die proudly of liver cirrhosis at age 50. Scatter my ashes over the 24 hour poutine diner.

“You’re not from here.”

Oh, did you notice my mother’s giant sun hat and fanny pack and assume we just got off a cruise ship? Good eye, gypsy.

“I can see that you’re very creative and emotional. You make a living creating things with your hands. Are you a writer?”

Can you feel my carpal tunnel?

“You’re going to be very, very successful with your writing. You will never have to worry about money. Don’t let anyone tell you to stop writing, no matter what. Things are going to start happening for you in 2010.”

That would be nice. Go on, gypsy.

“You’re a kind-hearted girl, and sensitive. You give a lot but don’t take much. You’ve been very disappointed by men. Very disappointed by love. A relationship is ending now, but he is not your soul-mate. He never was. You invested a lot in this relationship but it was never meant to be.”

You have piqued my interest, lady.

“I see marriage for you in three years. And three children – two boys and a girl.”

Oh fuck, god help the world. God help humanity.

“You are going to have one more relationship before you meet your husband. This relationship will be short but memorable. Your husband has blue eyes and you have so much in common. He really understands you. He really gets you like no one else has. You are going to be so happy. Your marriage will last until the end.”

Take that, mom.

“You are going to take a trip across the ocean soon. But not alone.”


“Things are going to get better. 2010, it’s all going to fall into place.”

Then she patted my hand and I sauntered over to the next stall to buy some meat on a stick.

So, I guess this is how I’m going to tell you that FauxHawk and I broke up yesterday. Minutes before I went to Granville Island. My life has always been comically complicated, but now it seems the gypsies are in on it, too.

I should correct myself. FauxHawk wants to delay the breakup until I get back to CapitalCity. It will still be over the phone, but I guess it seems less harsh if I’m only two hours away by car.

So, right now – in the skies – I’m literally in limbo. When I land I’ll be single.

I’ve already done the whole devastated post-breakup depression thing with FauxHawk. I won’t do it again. When this plane lands I am going to move on with my life once and for all. 2010 isn’t all that far away, and if that gypsy is right then I have some work ahead of me. Maybe I’ll write a book. Watch for me, bitches.

I cried for a while after what we will henceforth refer to as “the dumpage.” (Heh. Dump.) But then I had a great day. My mom and I hit the sauce on a patio overlooking the ocean. Then WeeOne met up with us at my mom’s apartment and we got sloppy drunk on her balcony. I had my feet up on the table, my sunglasses on, and a gin in my hand. My mom took a walk to get more tonic and WeeOne and I smoked a joint and watched the sunset. When my mom returned we were dancing to Journey and celebrating life. We walked over to the cambie bridge to watch the fireworks. I got a little sad when the show started, but it’s hard to stay upset when you’re with the people you love, standing on a bridge in the best city in the world, and there’s gin in your water bottle. Maybe bringing a recently dumped woman to the top of a bridge in the middle of the night isn’t the wisest idea, in hindsight.

I climbed a motherfucking mountain on Tuesday. Like, an actual mountain. I made it to the top, and the first thing I did was text FauxHawk to tell him about it. I am the type of person who literally shouts my love from the mountaintops.

The plane is starting its descent.

CapitalCity is looking pretty bleak.

ThePeach UPDATE: FauxHawk and ThePeach are officially over for good. I'm single. And sad.