Thursday, July 28, 2011

Introducing the family

  I have a big family. My father has eight brothers and sisters and three step-siblings. My mother only has three, but she's very close to all of her aunts and uncles, so I know most of my great-aunts and uncles. My dad mother (Mamere Ann) had about a dozen siblings (yeah, I'm NOT quite sure. Deal.) and his bio father had about the same. Mother's mom had five siblings, her father had four and so on, and so forth. 
  So it's big.
  So, through the course of the posting, I'll mention different relatives. Cousins who I cannot figure out what to call and my immediate family, my parents, my sisters and my grandmother and her boyfriend. My grandmother is Little (that's what I'm gonna call her) and she's the only surviving grandparent I have. Her boyfriend who she met after the death of Grandfather is The Hugger. Oh, and yes, a capital on the word 'the' is needed, because he is a hugger and it's not a good thing in my book. 
  My parents are Mother and Father or Ma and Pa or Mama and Papa. Yes, I will use every one of those variations, to fuck with you and because I call them all of these things and another variation that is one I invented so I'm not gonna share. Why would I give away my secret special name? Uh, hello? We're not that close. I don't know if you'll use the names to trick my parents and steal them away. I can't risk losing them, they pay my allowance! My parents are also still together and have been for, uh, about 21 years, give or take since I can't remember exactly (oh, and shut up because it's not my marriage so why the hell do I have to remember how long it's been going on?) 
  So, moving on. I have three sisters. And if I really wanna mess with you, I'll just say 'she' then won't identify them. Ooh, evil plans, I'm just full of 'em. But, to be nice, I'm going with Big, Bigger and Biggest. Ha! Genius, I know. Big is the closest to me in age, the third of four girls. She's one of my best friends and is currently living in a room adjacent to mine. We don't tap out secret messages on the wall, because we're grown up, of course, but we do have music competition. Cause we're grown up, but we're still teenagers. 
  Bigger is the second of the four of us. Out of the four of us, she and I are the most similar. She's been with a guy (Stretch, cause he's tall..ish) for about three years now (knock on wood, lots and lots of wood) and lives in an apartment with a cat. Yeah, we're cat people, if you hadn't guessed that.
  Biggest is the eldest of the four of us, and is my half-sister, the result of Mother's first marriage. She and I are ten years apart, and I'm not as close to her because she was moving out of the house when I was five. She lives in another province with her husband, Stock. No, that's not his real name, but he's stocky and a big pain in the ass, but I can't call him Pain-in-the-Ass, because it takes too long to type, so Stock it is. She and Big are basically twins, who speak, act and think so much alike, you could confuse the two. Well, you could. Big and I now each other too well. 
  So, that's my family. Actually, that's my family for now. Over time, I'm gonna introduce you to more and more and more of them, until you explode and you cry "No, dear God, no! Stop seeing people. Stop talking to them! Too many names and too many people. Make it stop!" But I won't, of course, because I'm never going to get rid of them. (You ask "well, isn't that a good thing?" And I shake my head. I shake my head and walk away). 
  Okay, that's it. I'm bored. Bye for now.   

Friday, July 22, 2011

Let's Talk Today

  I wonder if perhaps I should save this post until September, when everyone will be thinking more about this. But with the attacks on Oslo and Utoya, I believe the time is now, and we should talk today. 
  I'm seventeen. When the airplanes crashed into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, I was seven. I was sitting at home in front of the television when my program was interrupted and they showed the footage of the smoking Towers. 
  I believe I turned to my mother and asked her what was wrong, and why was that building on fire. She explained that someone had flew a plane into it to make it flame. I wondered whether anyone had been hurt, but I knew from the smoke that it would be really hard to breath in there. I hoped everyone could get down the stairs. 
  A second after, the anchorman (or woman, not sure) came on and said that a warning had been issued for Toronto's CN tower, and Canadians should be on high alert. That scared me, even though we were living in Saskachewan at the time, but it was the thought that anyone would come into Canada and try to hurt people like that freaked me out. 
  In 2001, those shots of the Towers and subsequent footage lead me to live with a feeling of dread, it made me fearful. A fear for the ones I love, for my world and the future. Now, though, I'm not afraid. I'm pissed. 
  Today, an attack was made on a building in Oslo, Norway, causing seven known deaths and multiple injuries. But what's even worse (if you can believe it) is that at the same time, a man dressed as a police officer opened fire on a youth summer camp, a camp with 700 occupants and kids as young as 15. They ran to the beach, swam off the island and up trees and needed help. "One party youth member tweeted: "We are sitting down by the beach. A man is shooting clothed in a police uniform. Help us! When are the police coming to help us!"" ( 30 are suspected to be injured or dead, but at this time, the numbers aren't solid. And this, my friends, is bullshit. 
  I am tired of being afraid. I am tired of hearing on the news that another Canadian/British/American/Swedish/etc solider has died in Afghanistan/Iraq and everywhere else troops are stationed. I'm sick and fucking tired of terrorists. You are not better because of your religion, or your skin tone or the fact that you believe you are following some ancient text to a T. Because buddy, we all make mistakes and your mistake was thinking you had the right to kill others, harm others or try to diminish them in any way. Because of that, you are less than anyone else, even that cranky bitch who cuts in front of people at Macdonalds, then orders the whole goddamn menu. You terrorist/terrorist group are a piece of shit. 
   I may not be that old, but I know my history (at least the good parts), and frankly extremists Muslims, you are just copycats, because, as I recall, the Christians, Romans, and every other powerful religion in the history of the world has done what you have done, and guess what? They ALWAYS fell. Even Christanity, the "Superpower of the Universe" (what I call it in my head, but with a snarky, sarcastic tone) are slowly losing steam, especially with the no-condom-even-if-you-have-an-STD and the raping little boys bits. Those are incredibly popular. NO really. Islam, why can't you just be happy being one of the Big 3, instead of trying to kill all the "infidels" and convert everyone to believe in a someone that they might not click with. <This is probably the nicest way I can say this, "click with". It doesn't clash with anyone, leave me be> Muhammad may be a cool guy, but John Lennon had some good moments as did Bob Marley and Gandhi. Doesn't mean they went round blowing shit up. 
 You wanna rule the world, psychotic, schizophrenic asshats? Too fucking bad. There are others here, that are most likely tired of your highhanded, dumbass moves and are just waiting for the right moment to squish you like a fucking bug. I hope it happens soon too, because you're starting to get some confidence. 
  What I truly believe, is that these terrorists and assholes don't really give a flying fuck about where they get their orders from. They just want to play out their sick, horrendous little fantasies, just like serial killers. That what terrorists are. Serial killers with a Qua'ran or Bible egging them on. Stupid, fucked up never-been-willingly-fucked crazy bags-of-camel-&-rhinoceros shit.  
  So, that's the end of my rant about terrorist attacks and extremists religious freaks who don't know to just go home, throw some darts, smoke some marijuana and eat Cheetos instead of killing children. 
  But just so you know, I don't hate all Muslims. Far from it. I just don't agree with anyone who thinks they're always right, including some Muslims, some Christians and my parents. Believing I should be raped if I show my bare arms turns me off also, just so you know. 

  Aside, who else gets Twin Towers of the WTC and the Two Towers of LOTR mixed up? I always have to pause before talking about either because in my head I'm like, "Twin or Two? Oh, fuck". I couldn't include that in the rant because a funny makes a rant not so serious. But, I can leave it in the end for you chuckle at. Or swear and say "What a disrespectful little shit, I'm never reading this blog again." Oh, damn. There's you, thinking that I give a damn. 
  Edited to add: I actually had to google the 9/11 attacks because I did fuck up Twin and Two. Such an idiot. 

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Ow! Volume 1

  I bobo. If you don't know what a bobo is, then you did not grow up in a French-Canadian family or know anyone who is French-Canadian. A bobo is any injury that is not serious enough to warrant medical attention but does warrant whining. You can also complain about a bobo after a medical visit, as I often (i.e. all the time) do after blood work, you know when they jab a needle into your arm and try to suck out as much as possible. Fun times, let me tell you. 
   A bobo can also be soemthing so minor that you forget about it in an hour's time. For me, I only whine and hobble after, let's say, I walked into a door and banged my toe AND SOMEONE CARES. I can very easily shake it off and go on, but if someone expresses any type of sympathy then I will milk it like an old dairy cow. Usually it ends comically with some jokes and jabs and the bobo is forgotten. Serious bobos (or boboes? Huh....) are generally ignored, like when I broke my toe dancing this past fall and it turned blue and swelled up. ("Swelled up" doesn't look right does it. Oh, fuck it.) 
  Right now though, I bobo. Two days ago, I put a pair of sterling silver earrings into my infected ears, hoping that they would calm down after a few days. Nope. In fact, they now contain hard little bubbles that smell bad and contain green stuff. Oh, perhaps I should have mentioned it was gross? Oh well. I just removed the earrings, rubbed alcohol on everything and hopefully they will get better. I'm pissed because a) they bobo! b) they're not closed still, even though they were done six years ago because my body is stubborn and c) I can't watch comedy on my computer because my ears bobo! Oh, I said that already. Shit. 
  So, now you know about bobos, and are well informed and full of knowledge. Your welcome. But I wonder, what did you call bobos when you were little? How were minor injuries treated in your house? Did your parents freak out like mine and run and get you water, even if you had just fell down the stairs and the last thing you wanted was water? I wanna know! 

My Introduction

I've decided to introduce myself. Yes, I've thought that perhaps I should have done this in my first post, but I will remind you that I didn't say that I'd be ordered in the blog, simply that I would use spellcheck.
And I think I have.
Well, probably.
  So, let's get intoduced.
  I'm a teenage from Canada who's interested in politics and old, funny movies. I'm trying to find an area in which those two overlap. No, not a good chance of that, thanks for asking.
  I've suddenly realized that I can't type forever. I'd love to have these friggin' long ass posts that take forever to read, but then I wouldn't feel so guilty about never posting.
  You won't believe how many hours I waste on doing a single post. Of course, in three hours, I usually spend about six minutes on the post while the rest is spend surfing. Heck, I wrote the beginning of this one in 2010. That's a long time to wait. 
  So, back to me.
  But, of course, everything is about me. (My ego made a snide remark. Don't worry, I kicked him in the head and stuffed him in the dryer. His replacement popped right out of the package, nice and easy. Good thing I have surplus.) 
  I tend to be obnoxious, outgoing and have an endless supply of views. My mouth tends to go before that little checkered flag is waved by my brain. Oh, and my brain and my mouth. Not good friends. Not frenemies, either. Those bitches will fight `til the death. Ooh, that`ll be painful. 
  About nine months ago my doctor told me that I might have a number of diseases, including PCOS and diabetes. It's alright that I told you because I don't know you. Unless I do know you. Then please don't comment and say who I am. That would be odd. 
  I'm also dealing with depression, a disease that runs rampant in my French-Canadian family, and something I've been dealing with since the age of thirteen with counselling and now, anti-depressants. 
  Yeah, you got it right. I'm perfectly normal.