Tuesday, September 22, 2009

ThePeach is old; barren

I had lunch with TigerCat and my Dad yesterday. I’m having a fairly stressful week, so when a baby started screaming in the restaurant, my reaction was to curl my face in disgust and mutter “take it for a walk. TAKE IT FOR A WALK.”

TigerCat’s reaction was to coo in the general direction of the child, and turn to me.

TigerCat: When are you going to have babies? You’re going to be 27 in two weeks, you know. When are you planning on having babies?!
ThePeach: Fuck off.
Dad: Hey now. Give Peach a break. She doesn’t even have a boyfriend.
ThePeach: Amazing.

Yesterday’s anal fisting was brought to you by my family and the progression of time.

But don’t begrudge my precious TigerCat. She brought me a dozen home-made muffins.

I’ve already eaten 8 of them, alone in my disastrous apartment, watching more of my viable time slip by.

ThePeach

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

You are not alone.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
FUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKK.

So, this week of school is going great. Last week tricked us, what with the no real class and the orientations and the patios full of tequila shots and hope.

This week is all about remembering that the goal of our program is to kill us all.

I mean, it’s only Wednesday and I’m already lying alone in the dark, just staring. I’m not sure at what. Maybe at a life that is suddenly full of more writing than I ever thought possible. Like my thesis, and 1200-word op-ed insight pieces, and WHY WHY WHY does there have to be a fucking federal election each year that I am in journalism grad school?? For the love of Layton’s moustache, cool your jets Ignatieff! I want to write about other things. Like kittens.
Anyway. Today was rough, but I take some solace in the fact that everyone else in my class is wandering around like a kicked puppy, their wounded eyes pleading for the lazy days of multiple unpaid summer internships.

I got home from my newspaper workshop and immediately collapsed on the couch with a bag of chips, a jar of peanut butter, and a globe and mail. I even have to multi-task during my nervous breakdowns.

I whimpered and texted MC.

ThePeach: How was your day? I just stress-ate an entire bag of chips. Now I’m starting on the peanut butter.
MC: I want my mom.


Week 1.

ThePeach

Oh, right. This.

Right. School.

I'm two days in, and already I:

1. Don't have time to exercise. Let the back fat commence!
2. Spend all my waking moments consuming news. This time because I have to teach bright-eyed first years, and I should probably know what an Obama is.
3. Am down from a solid 8 hours of sleep/night to a fretful 5. The countdown is on. By next week I'll be at a red-bull driven 3.
4. Am literally down to my last dollar. Credit card is maxed out. Used the last monies to my name to order a subscription to the Globe and Mail. See #2. Now can't afford to eat. Packed lunch today = rice and a sausage I found in the back of the freezer. Will dance for nickels.
5. Have no time for life. The assignments are already starting to pile up, I just remembered that I have a thesis, and today I start my newspaper workshop. That sausage is looking pretty optimistic, as I'll realistically consume a coffee and a breath mint for lunch instead.
6. Had my debit card rejected at the dentist. 4 times, just to make sure I really had no money in my account. Do they have repo men for teeth? I have to go back tomorrow to pay them. I hope they will accept my cat, wrapped lovingly in yesterday's globe and mail.

To quote spaz: *whispers to self* It's all going to fall apart.

And now to shower and put on a sweater vest, because damn if I can't be a sexy disaster.

Send nickels.

ThePeach

Friday, September 11, 2009

Love; It's like a Hurricane

I saw FauxHawk yesterday. He was in CapitalCity to see his family and wanted to stop by for a visit. Of course I said yes, because I’m a goddamn masochist.

We hadn’t spent any time together in a little while, so I was nervous. I started texting people about an hour before he came over.

ThePeach: FauxHawk is coming over. I think for coffee. I’m scared.
BadInfluence: Throw your coffee in his face.
ThePeach: Actually, I was thinking I’d just look super hot and throw that in his face instead.
BadInfluence: Just as painful.


Hotness is the only weapon in my arsenal right now. So I did my best to work it, despite the fever and face full of snot. But in the end it didn’t matter, because as soon as FauxHawk walked through my door my illusions of superiority melted and I just wanted to hold hands and tell him about my day. Goddamnit, love.

We watched some tv and chatted. It just felt natural to lean back on him and have him put his arms around me. I could feel his heart beating on my back.

The thing is, it’s hard. The breakup thing is fucking hard. We’re not right for each other. I don’t want to be a Jewish Stepford Wife, slopping my 2pm martini on the carpet while I tell my kids that Daddy doesn’t know how to love Mommy, and that’s why Mommy drinks. But we love each other, and we did for five years and that doesn’t just go away after two months and an Irish bartender.

So when FauxHawk and I see each other, it seems natural to fall into old habits. Don’t worry, nothing happened beyond the cuddling. Although, really, that almost seems more destructive than a meaningless fuck.

Anyway, eventually I extracted myself from Satan’s bear trap and met some friends at the bar for a much, much needed drink. I immediately poured several gins down my throat and became slurry drunk thanks to the approximately 47 benalyn pills I had consumed already that day. Later, some of us went back to BadInfluence’s house to continue the par-tay. I was feeling a little empty, and that’s when GinBucket broke out the guitar and started singing the most amazing song I have ever heard.

GinBucket: Love, it’s like a hurricane: it happens in Florida, it gets into everything.
Love, it’s like a monster truck: it fills up whole stadiums, but it crushes smaller trucks
Love, it’s like a marmoset: it may be small and cute, but sometimes it eats its young
Love, it’s like a trailer park: ugly but functional, the rent is cheap enough
Love, it’s like a garbage man: it collects waste and filth, it smells like rotting flesh
Love, it’s like an interstate: it gets you from place to place, but it’s littered with dead raccoons
Love, it’s like a newborn child: seems interesting when it’s young, gets pedestrian after a while
Love, it’s like a hurricane: it happens in Florida, it destroys everything.

I sat there in awe, gin in hand, while GinBucket sang what is essentially my new theme song. I might have fallen in love with her a little bit at that moment. But remember that I'm predisposed to people who can sing and play guitar at the same time.

Anyway, I eventually stumbled home at 4am, took two more benalyn, fever-slept until noon, and then met MortalCombat at Starbucks. We took our coffees down to the canal and lay in the grass, watching a little girl in a white dress chase ducks. We discussed life and love.

Love really is like a hurricane. But thank god for friend love. It keeps me alive.

And drunk. Which is so key.

ThePeach


Thursday, September 10, 2009

ThePeach is back to the real world; does not like

Ola, bitches.

I’m back to school this week and the return to the real world has had its ups and downs. The ups include seeing all my MJ lovers again and getting drunk on patios.

The downs are more interesting.

1. Another burn from Grandpa
I had brunch with my grandpa the day after I got back to town. I was feeling good – all tanned and awesome – and was excited to see the only good man in my life. We went to Cora’s, ordered our crepes and coffees, and my grandpa beamed at me.

Grandpa: I missed you, girl!
ThePeach: I missed you, grandpa! *shovels crepes into mouth*
Grandpa: You look great!
ThePeach: *mouth full of crepes* SHANKSH!
Grandpa: You fattened up in the face!!
ThePeach: *chokes*


Amazing. Just the look I was going for.

2. I have Swine Flu
Ok, not really. But maybe. Ok, not even maybe. But I do have the motherfucking cold of death and want to be dead. I can barely breathe, I sound like I swallowed a chain saw, and I have a fever. And the only cure is more cow bell. Seriously, though, there is no cure. I’ve been going to bed at 9:30pm and drinking litres of neocitron, to no effect. Last night I ran out of neocitron and stumbled to the Lebanese minimart at 9pm in booty shorts and a hippy shirt, dazed by fever. I stood in the middle of the packed little minimart, completely overwhelmed. The kindly Lebanese man helped me.

Lebanese man: What you need?
ThePeach: *wheeze* drugs.
Lebanese man: You sick, sweetheart?
ThePeach: *cough* drugs.
Lebanese man: Ok, I have the thing. *reaches behind a display of sanitary napkins from the 1970s, fish hooks, and flashlights* Here, good drugs.
ThePeach: *examines dusty box* Is this neocitron?
Lebanese man: Better. No name neocitron. Extra strength. It help you, sweetheart.
ThePeach: *wheeze* I also need microwave popcorn.
Lebanese man: *points* There. Under Beef Jerky display.
ThePeach: *eyes well up* You always have everything I need. You are amazing and I love you.
Lebanese man: How much drugs you already take, sweetheart?
ThePeach: *wheeze* I’ll also take some beef jerky.

Anyway, now I’m fully blitzed on cold meds and I have to go meet the class that I TA this year. Fuckin’ A!

3. Milo is great
The cat is not happy about living with me again. The little traitor fucking adores FauxHawk, who was cat sitting while I was in Portugal. The cat tried to scratch my eyes out when I took him away from FauxHawk’s, cried the whole way home – even after I fed him part of my Big Mac – and now spends all day sitting by the door, howling like a little bitch, and looking at me with sad eyes.

But the other day he really expressed his distaste about living with me by sprinting around the apartment with a full turd dangling from his ass, eventually depositing it on my living room carpet.

I’m trying to be patient. He is a child of divorce.

But I might have to have him put down if this continues.

Well, I think that’s everything for now. Time to go meet the first year students I will be teaching and spread the swine flu.

Help.

ThePeach

Sunday, September 06, 2009

ThePeach Goes to Portugal; Epic Bender Ensues

Oh holy fuck me sideways on a donkey cart. How do I even start to describe the past 14 days of my life?

I should have known that this entire trip would be a gong show from beginning to end. TheAmazon and I can’t spend a weekend together without someone fucking a cowgirl or winding up in the hospital, so I should have foreseen that this would not be your average backpacking vacation.

It started with our flight there, which was cancelled due to tornadoes in Philadelphia. Why not? So then we were put on standby with Lufthansa, a German airline, got seats with 20 minutes before takeoff, TheAmazon wound up sitting next to the hottest chick on the plane, and I got stuck with an old Austrian man. But he did get me drunk, so all was not lost. We landed in Germany instead of Portugal, transferred flights, I got bumped to first class (YES!!), and eventually we made it to Lisbon.

Our first few days were uneventful, save for drinking one too many pitchers of Sangria, scaling a 30 foot monument at 4am in front of what turned out to be a security guard, and finding out our hostel roommates were two Spanish Men named Manuel and Juan. Ola.

We did the good little tourist thing in Lisbon, and then decided to head south to the Algarve. We wanted to go to Faro, but we decided to stop in this small town called Lagos for 2 days on the way. We had heard it was a pretty neat little town, so a pit stop there seemed reasonable.

We never left.

Oh my god, Lagos. LAGOS!!! We accidentally stumbled about the hedonism paradise of Europe. First of all, it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen. The water is aquamarine, the beaches are golden, and the backdrop is a series of tall cliffs jutting out into the ocean. The weather is perfect every single day. Thank god I packed my booty shorts at the last minute, because I didn’t take them off for 10 days. It’s flinging flanging hot in the Algarve.

We had no idea what we were getting into when we got off the train on our first day there. I mean, we could see that we had landed in paradise, but we didn’t know that we had landed in drunktown/fuckville. After a day spent at the beach, we decided to get dressed and head out for dinner. We were a little tired, so we decided it would be a quiet night. We made it two blocks from our little guest house before an Australian heartbreaker named Garreth stopped us in the street and offered us a free shot if we went to his bar.

We looked at each other. Well, what’s the harm in one free drink before dinner?

Next thing we know it’s 6am, an entire Aussie footy team has just done body shots off my ass and TheAmazon’s tits, TheAmazon has lost her shirt, and my g-string is hanging from the ceiling. Ok.

Not too sure what happened there. We slept for 4 hours, stumbled to the beach, and lay there until the world stopped spinning.

Multiply x 12 days.

Lagos is a strange little place. It’s a backpacker Mecca, where travelers from all over the world visit and then never leave. The entire town is run by Aussies and Brits, save for a few old Portuguese ladies who run the guest houses. You can forget you’re in Portugal until you go to the bathroom and have to squat over a hole in the floor with 3 other people.

Every single bar plays “Tonight’s Gonna be a Good Night” by Black Eyed Peas. It might as well be the Lagos anthem. And with happy hour all night, 2 for 1 mojitos, and free shots, every night really is a good night. The trick is not to resist. You have to let yourself become a part of the rhythm that moves Lagos, otherwise you need to get the fuck out. Drink until you’re blind, smoke like a 50 year old hooker, and enjoy the company of hundreds of other people who just want to drink, smoke, and get naked on the beach, up against the walls of the old town, in the clubs, etc. And for the love of syphilis, use a condom.

This isn’t to say we did nothing but drink. We went to Sagres to go surfing and nearly died in the violent waves. We walked 6km through a desert to get to the point of Piety – the most southwestern point in Europe – and felt like Jesus dragging his cross. We hiked through cliffs, swam in lagoons, and explored caves.
And then as soon as the sun went down we went back to being sloppy, drunken cunts. One day I woke up with a giant bump on the back of my head and no recollection of how I concussed myself. Another day TheAmazon woke up with a sprained ankle. I have a series of bruises from hip to calf on my left leg. Really wish I knew how that happened.

I adopted the town dog, a stray little monster with an underbite and crazy eyes. His name is Steve and I gave him bacon every morning. He loved me and I loved him until he bit me, the little fucker. Add rabies to the list, along with lung cancer and skin cancer. We made friends. Many friends. Some were special friends, like the sexy Irish bartender who bought me shots of absinthe and smirked as I flirted shamelessly.

“Yor a dorty gurl.”

Oh fuck me. It’s all over.

Turns out Irish accents make my clothes come off. Like, immediately. I can add that to the list, along with tequila, guys who can sing and play guitar at the same time, and anyone in a position of authority. Note: this list is not to be used for evil by any of my readers.

But by our last day in Lagos we were getting disillusioned. And not just because Ireland eventually burned me for a German whore (new favourite expression = pump and dump) and TheAmazon’s Aussie bartender decided she was no longer a lesbian.

On our last morning I sat on the curb, holding my absinthe-riddled head while TheAmazon shopped for souvenirs. A giant rat ran past me. How metaphoric.

The thing is, everyone in Lagos is running away from something. I was trying to forget my failed relationship, TheAmazon was trying to forget her hateful job, and everyone who works there has basically run away permanently. Nobody throws their entire lives away to live in perpetual sin if they’re not escaping from something back home. So the town has a bit of a dark edge to it. When you realize this it starts looking less and less like paradise. You start noticing the how all of the ex-pats have little guts and are prematurely aged from drinking 8 hours/day. You see the beggars with no feet. You see the fucking rats.

We left just in time, I think. My recommendation is to stay no more than 10 days.

That said, we were both wrist-cuttingly depressed to leave hedonism, which was only made worse by the 20+ hours we spent in transit on the way home. We were so grumpy on our first flight that I actually started yelling at the parents of one of the two screaming babies in our cabin. “BABY GRAVOL!!!” “BABY GRAVOL!!!” “FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!”

So anyway, to keep ourselves from getting arrested, we did the math. For real, it took us a good 4 hours. I give you…

Portugal By the Numbers:

Average Hours Slept per night: 4.8
Average Drinks consumed each per night: 11.8
Total Drinks consumed each over 12 days: 153
Number of times the word “cunt” was used per day: 37 (approximate)
Number of cigarettes smoked each per night: 9
International Man Bingo Winners, rated by performance:
- Team Event: Australia, with an average 8.25
- Solo Event: Ireland, with an average 8.5

I also give you: Strange Facts about Portugal!
1. When they bring you bread at dinner, they serve fish paste instead of butter. Like, it comes in the little plastic container, but it’s made of sardine. Being adventurous, I tried it. Bowels no likey.
2. The number 2 is pronounced “douche” in Portuguese. Therefore TheAmazon and I ordered everything in pairs in order to say douche as much as possible. Douche bus tickets. Douche tequila. Douche surfboards. Obrigado.
3. Bidets are everywhere. I used them to clean my feet after the beach.
4. 5 euro Portuguese hair straightners WILL tear out half your head of hair after 2 weeks of use. Bad choice. Good price.
5. At least 5 Indian restaurants on every street corner. Vindaloo while backpacking and averaging 11.8 drinks per night = not recommended. Bowels no likey. NO LIKEY.

So anyway, that’s pretty much my trip in a nut shell. Before I left I said I had 3 goals: to come back fat, relaxed, and with some serious perspective. I think I managed all three, although “fat” is questionable. But most importantly, moving on from FauxHawk is starting to seem less impossible. Like maybe I won't die alone after all. Or die of a broken heart. Also, I really hope he keeps his promise to stop reading my blog. Moving on seems more possible (eventually), but hurting him is still impossible. My heart still aches when I think of him.

One final note: Pauly Shore was on my connecting return flight from Philly to TheBigCity.

I love my life.

ThePeach