Fe fi fo fum

I don't know why I like giant things so much, I just do. You can go here to see more oversized snacks. They should look delicious...

Tingles

I need to find the same excitement drugs gives me, in something else. Sex is good, but that hasn't been part of my life for a long time. My boyfriend can't have an erection unless he's sick, and then things are too sensitive to be fun. I've never found anyting that equals the thrill of heroin. Heroin, my best friend, my lover. That moment of releasing loveliness and safety into my veins, feeling it swoop to my fingertips, tasting it on my tongue. Like slipping under the surface of a warm bath, scented and soft. Distanced from the world. Muting everything. I love swimming underwater, feeling the pressure against my skin, a noiseless world, hair swirling behind me. I never want to come up for air. I would stay down there forever if I could. It's going to be a painful break up.

Crackle

Work has been crazy, so I haven't had time to write. I've been arriving home at midnight, cuddling the cat and passing out. I've had this funny hollowness that I can't get rid of. Maybe it's because I know it's over with my boyfriend, and the hurt at losing someone (the only person) so close is big. I saw him for the first time this week late last night. He woke me up, coming in at 2am. I couldn't talk, I muttered nonsense and slipped back to my dreams. This morning I asked for my keys back. If he needs something, he should call me and meet me. It really hurt to say it. But I knew I had to. I know we have to break up, it's so strange how sad it makes me. He ran out slamming the two doors to the outside.

I love you guys

Empty

I fronted from the dealer for the first time on Friday. I said I would pay him back the next day. I'm good at that. I always keep my word. I had fronted it for my boyfriend and me. Knowing he was sick. When I met him, I already had it. But somehow, he had wangled money so he'd already called them. "Perfect," I said. You can pay them the money we owe right away. But he came back with more drugs. "I'll just pay it tomorrow," he said. "I'm making lots then." Tomorrow came. We fought because I worried about it too much. I got on his nerves. He didn't pay it. Sunday, I pawned my computer. Enough to pay for drugs and to pay my debt. But foolishly, I let him meet the drug dealer alone. Today, sick. Broke. Aching. Want to cry. Called the dealer and asked him to front me one. "What about the $60 you already owe me?" "But... My boyfriend paid you yesterday." "No he didn't. He bought more drugs." Fucking hell. When I was sick last night, he must have been in the bathroom doing drugs. The money that should have paid the dealer back. At the very least, he could have lied about it, but shared it with me. I wish there was some way, any way, I could just have something right now. Everything is too raw and painful and fucked. He made me break my word. He stole from me. He watched me be sick, while he got high on twice his dose. I'm going to go get my cat from his place, and go home. It's time. I've seen everything I need to. That's enough.

Oh it's you

Itchy, itchy. Maybe you can tell I've been avoiding writing. Yes I've been posting. All sorts of nonsense. But now it's a nice time to write. People's voices fading into the early evening, out the door, down the side streets onto the bus and home. Not me. I stay, crooked and surrounded in paper. Bare feet, my heels lying beside me. Wheeling on my office throne. Making paper boats to throw down the St. Laurence. Of varying sizes and quality. This morning, we were waiting on the street corner for the dealer when I saw the girl I haven't seen in a long time. She has a flower name, and her eyes all over my boyfriend. Skin to skin, whenever she can get that close. Round, pretty face. Porcelain skin, but her laugh is too big and too early. She's one of those, she nods before she knows the question. I'm sure they all talk at the dinner parties. "Tui. Drugs. Poor Tui. What a shame. What a waste. Blah blah blah. Junky." I never liked being looked up to. I don't like being pitied. I've been careful with my arms and only one is bad now. A glob of pale foundation and a slightly bent arm and I'm just another girl. Except if my purse spilled open, I'd be standing in a big pile of used needles and spoons and wrappers and waters. And my face would go bright red. And I'd wish I could shrink into the evidence and hide. Because I still care.

! ! !

EXTREME PUNCTUATION
Are you a punctuation slut?
What's worth an exclamation point in your world? And what's worth two? Do you ever go up to three? I know I have. At first I loved them (age 8, dotting them with love hearts or circles). Then I hated them (teen angst). Now I love them again.

AND EXTREME SPORTS
Have you heard of Extreme Ironing? You can do it underwater, in a war zone, on the roof of a car, giving birth on a tightrope etc. That's what these pictures are of. Men who climbed vertically for many hours to iron a shirt. Want to? I'm not making it up, go here.

Just one thing lies in the way of the Extreme Ironer's happiness. Urban Housework, a rival group that does the extreme sport of Urban Vacuuming (in forests mainly). Extreme Ironing "spiritually doesn't find it as right as ironing," Imagine two groups of teen girls fighting over who's more popular. I'm not taking sides, but Urban Housework's site is so ugly it will hurt your eyes. That's why I'm not adding a link. If you want to read more about it. Look here, or google it.

Rate yourself for me. How extreme are you? Out of ten. WIth ten the highest.
I think I'm 2. I'm very un-extreme.

I want this bathing suit.

Endless country strolls

Very cool invention. I'm sure it would be a hit in Tokyo, if there was space. Unfortunately, I have no idea who's the brains behind it. I found this image at Planet Dan. He's a funny guy. If you haven't already, check him out.

I saw at least 200 fleas today

It was so hot the cat's tongue was hanging out of its mouth, like a dog but pinker. I was running ahead, my legs aching, feet jarring every step on the sidewalk. My boyfriend was carrying the cat in my purse. He said he felt worse than I did. But he usually just complains more. My face was dark pink and my dress was sticking to me, transparent with sweat by the time we got to the corner.

It was my fault, I had tried to be smart and get the dealer to come faster. I'd pretended we were somewhere a long way from where we actually were. But they were late as usual, so the rush was all for nothing. I stopped at the corner and my boyfriend took the cat upstairs, out of the heat. He came back down five minutes later with a big glass of water for me. Suddenly he started jumping up and down, hitting himself. His arms were covered in fleas. His face was covered fleas. Even his black t-shirt and black jeans were glistening with their little dark brown bodies, shining in the hot sun. They started jumping off him and on to me. I started jumping up and down. He'd brush them off and then we'd change position walking a few metres away... each time leaving a pile of fleas in our place.

The heat must have made them all jump off the cat and onto him. I hope so anyway, but I can scarcely believe THAT many could fit on the cat's body. I mean, you look at his white spots and can see some scurrying under the fur, but not this many. And they were all uniform. No big monsters that you can bisect with your fingernails, just all little and hard. I've had enough now. The bloody expensive shit I rub all over the cat's body, the constant mewing and struggling when I comb him, vacuuming every five seconds. I honestly look infectious, I have these pink swollen lumps all over my entire body (even face). Yes, they bite my face. It's a fucking plague!

Ahem. Okay, I promise, no more flea-posts. They've even invaded this page.
Sit back.

Aww

Snuggle up to the Flu virus tonight.


To see more giant microbes as stuffed toys (the perfect gift for any ailing friend) go here and choose from HIV, Pimples, Syphillis and Ulcers, among other cuties.

Nice...

Cuckoo

I'm not sure why, maybe European readers can fill us in, but apparantly the brood parasitic Cuckoo is revered in Europe.

Changeling

I noticed the bird watching me. It was sitting on a powerline, below the balcony with the view that skims off forever. The bird had something in its beak. Maybe a bit of straw, or some bread from the French bakery across the road, loaves stacked in the window, where I had bought croissants and coffee for breakfast. Behind me some birds made an awful noise, a squawking. I turned fast enough to catch sight of a little feathered head poking out of a hole between bricks. It was definately not the only one in there. The adult bird watched me turn with obvious agitation. I silently stepped backwards, into the bedroom, and slid the glass door shut. The bird swooped up to its babies. My heart lifted with it.

But the day was grey with thunder ripping up the sky. And I started thinking about the Common Cuckoo, not the only mercenary bird, but the most renowned. She lays her eggs in a smaller bird's nest, while they're out finding food. Most often, she picks on Reed Warblers. Sometimes, as she drops off her own, she'll push the Warbler's eggs out. If she doesn't, as soon as her baby has hatched, he does. He'll roll out the unhatched eggs, or shove the tiny babies to the ground below. He's at least twice the size of his little foster parents and he's greedy and demanding. His new parents are exhausted, it's as if they're feeding a whole nest of birds. But they love him, thinking he's theirs, and keep going, just trying to be good parents and help him grow. Meanwhile, his real mother is off gallavanting, most likely fucking other Cuckoos and laying eggs in more nests, so she's free to stay out late clubbing, and not have to pay a babysitter.

Naturally, smaller sized birds have become pretty annoyed with the Cuckoo's tricks, they've started examining the contents of their nests closely, and to protect their dwindling species they'll push out any eggs that seem a bit odd, or relocate to a new nest, or sometimes even just build a fake floor over the weird egg and act as though it isn't there. But the Cuckoo mother is a determined slut, she refuses to stay home and play mom, so somehow, she's manipulated her eggs to look more like the bird's she preys on. Check it out!



And, so you know who to be nice to, this is what the Warbler looks like. He's actually teeny-tiny, but you can't really tell from this photo.



And this is the Common Cuckoo. Do NOT feed him crumbs.

Waiting

My dealer has been making me wait for hours. It burns up my evenings with anxiety and pacing. I half watch the TV and do my crossword, listening hard to the engines of the cars as they pass. Yesterday, I waited on the balcony with my new friend, Jay. He uses too, and he's been visiting almost every day. I don't think my boyfriend likes it. When they're both in the same room he gets strangely quiet. I'm going to ignore that because it's so nice to have a friend. Jay pays for his habit by shoplifting 32 bottles of wine a day. Yesterday we got high together, me shooting, him smoking. I always feel odd, my blood rolling down my arms, spilling onto my dress as I search for kleenex or anything cleanish to wipe with. Cleaning my needles, I'm used to just squirting the old blood onto the floor. His eyes make me realize how grubby I've become. I had all of my drugs in two shots, it lasts much longer for him, smoking helps a lot. It was too hot to just lie in front of the TV, and we always talk over it anyway, so we went for milkshakes. They were huge and minty, with chocolate chips. $5.50 each, it was like a meal. It felt nice to splurge, I lent him his drug money and bought his milkshake, being payday. But strangely, I couldn't feel my drugs. I'm at a bad level now. I've gone beyond, pushed higher. Too high. I sent him to get more for me, I still couldn't feel anything. But my fingers swelled and my pupils were small. I just didn't feel the safeness. Maybe it has gone for good.

MEN WANTED

For hazardous journey. Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful. Honour and recognition in case of success.

hometown pride

This is what New Zeaand girls do, we wear banners or brush hair a lot and lie pool-side, in heels. It's tons of fun. Now I'm going to start humming the national anthem, minus the high notes...

Glubg

On Monay I didn't have any h for the first time in months and months and months. I thought I would be sick with just my done, but I was just a bit antsy. I took a valium and watched TV, curled with the cat. It was okay! I know the only reason I could do it was because my boyfriend wasn't there. I'm going home early from work tonight to clean my house. My boyfriend has now moved everything out!! I hadn't even realized because there are so many piles of trash here and there. So nice of him to leave them for me. Just doing one day without using makes me know I can do it. It's amazing. i'm going to ban my boyfriend from seeing me for a week and stop using full stop. It feels good to make decisions. Even though, I have this sneaking feeling- that if I was rich enough to maintain my habit, well, I would never stop.

A boy I've been spending quite a bit of time with recently dropped by last night. Usually I hate drop-byers, maybe I need my house to be spic'n span or something, I'm not sure why it annoys me so much.
He asked me how much money I make, me lying on my ink-stained sheet, ripped dress on, complaining I was hungry because I hadn't eaten that day (no food, no money). He was trying to borrow $2.50 and I didn't even have that. When I told him- 65K, it's not THAT much, and the taxes are rotten, his jaw dropped, and suddenly I could see myself through his eyes.
"Babe, you should be paying off a mortgage, not paying rent,"
"I know." And in my head I listed all my bills for pay day. Much more than my pay cheque, and more in line for the next.

The Plan

I have to get rid of my worries. I need to stop the nightmares, the cold sweats and the shaky days.

1.
Drugs. Pass my next urine test. Which (I think), means not doing h for a week before- am I right about this?
Then I'll start getting take-outs of my methadone. And I can begin to reduce myself, with me in charge.
Do it. No excuses. Because this is really important. More important than anything.
This will mean spending long periods apart from my boyf. He has his own place, he needs to start staying there. I can't do this with him around.
Sounds so easy doesn't it.

2.
Cash. Create the tightest budget of my life and stick to it. Erase my bills, its got to be possible. And do my fucking taxes.
I have this habit. It's bad. A letter comes, it looks like a bill. I get this feeling, my stomach turns, I think, 'later.' I just can't open it. It's the same with phone calls, and even emails sometimes. I dread the next bill, the next bad cheque or credit notification. It twists me up inside.

Wheel Heels

Nodding in and out at my desk. The fluorescent lights are low. No sunlight. Some construction is going on above me. I'm the last one left, like always. I keep pushing further and further into the night. I'm more addicted to work than drugs. Mentally, anyway. My bum has flattened itself into a chair shape. I'm all stiff. I'm becoming the chair. I wouldn't be surprised if someone came in, sat down on me and started typing on my laptop or something. Anyway, I'm formulating a plan, and I'll tell you all about it on Monday.

With a roof made from Egyptian cotton

It was this time last year that I got my habit. Not long ago at all really. But in that time a lot of money has been earned, and spent. And that's about it. I've been picking flowers and pressing them between the pages of the giant dictionaries on my desk. I used to do that as a little girl, and we'd find them years later, so many hiding places many would get lost. I thought I'd saved enough money to pay my rent. It's odd, but somehow, I imagined that I have a $1000 overdraft, when really, it's just $500. So I checked my account, got all confused, and now I don't know what to do. The landlord is a horrible man, and has already summoned me to the rental court thingy last month. The thing is, my boyfriend often forgets to give me my mail. So I received the letter, but after the day I was supposed to go. Strangely, I had paid all my rent. I HAD been a month late, but I'd paid it. I don't even know what's going on, it's legal and written in French. I think I'm being kicked out, but whatever, my lease is up in two months anyway. I just want to rest, that's all. I hate moving. I want space around me that's clear and uncluttered and smells like me. There's nothing like your own pillow. That's what I want, to move into my pillow. I wouldn't leave often, that's for sure.

Up

Several things have made me feel much better. On Monday I finally replaced my bmx that got nicked over winter. My new one is beautiful. All black with lemon yellow tires. It takes me ten minutes to get to work now, instead of forty by foot or bus to metro. I ride on the sidewalks, dart between cars, race down one-way streets the wrong way. Wind in my hair, my heart races and I feel strong. My house is almost clean of all my boyfriends things. He's 75% moved out. At last. Already I can breathe a bit easier. And the kitten is glorious.

winged

MONEY MONEY

Yesterday's story has a second part to it. I wasn't going to write it, but it's the part that means the most.

We were staying on a farm next door to the rich family's mansion. It was a long way next door, through fields and over a little river. A few days after our visit, my mother called me from my book with a basket of freshly picked apples. I had to take them to Jimmy's mother with a thank-you note. I made the mistake of saying I didn't want to. "Do you think I want to cook your dinner and wash your clothes and clean up after you? Do you think I want to go to work every day to pay for your nice clothes?" My mother once started, doesn't stop easily. I bristled with self-pity. In and out, I thought. I pictured it. I'd knock, Jimmy's mother would come, I'd hand her the apples. I'd leave. it would be simple, it would be okay. Maybe it would have been. But I arrived at a bad time.

It was Jimmy who opened the front door. Several plump friends in tow. "Mom! Tui's here for my birthday party!" "N...no," I choked. "I'm just bringing these apples for your mom. I have to go RIGHT BACK." Jimmy's mom quickly appeared. "Of course you don't have to go right back. Stay and play with the children." "I'm not allowed." I said, my face turning red and hot tears building up behind my eyes. Jimmy's mom kept pushing. "Come on, Tui. I'm going to call your mother." Inside I groaned, I'd be caught. Of course my mother would let me. Jimmy's mother led me into the study, Jimmy followed with his friends.

The all-boy party was excited by the girl. They all wanted me to stay. Jimmy's mother put on her glasses and read our number off the thank-you note. The phone rang and rang. There wasn't an answer! My mother must have been in the garden. My whole body relaxed. "Oh well, goodbye then," I said, backing towards the door. "No, no" Jimmy's mother replied firmly, "you can't go home if no one's there." She'd won. I felt like stabbing her in her over-powdered, flaccid, puffy face. She smelt of perfume, not like my mother's, heavier and thicker. Overpowering.

Her eyes were small and sharp. She dialled the number again. This time my mother answered. Jimmy's mother thanked her for the apples... and said Jimmy was having a wonderful party... and Tui was "dying to stay." I glowered at the floor. Usually my mother would say yes right away. But today was different. "Your mother wants to talk to you," she handed me the phone. I looked up, surprised. Everyone in the room was suddenly quiet. They all watched me say hello. "Do you want to stay Tui?" My mother asked softly. Our fight had been forgotten. Everyone craned forward. "No! That's not fair!" I said, pretending to be arguing with her.

Jimmy's mother took the phone back. She seemed shocked at what my mother said. "Are you sure..? But she wants to stay SO badly..." Finally she hung up. "Sorry Jimmy, Tui's not allowed. Her mother said she has to come home at once."

I knew then, and I remember it now, how special my mother is. And how she's part of me like no one else is. This story is the closest I can get to explaining it. Her intuition. How safe she makes me feel. Maybe that's why I have a recurring nightmare- that she finds out who I really am, and I lose her.

MONEY

I was 9. Sitting on the couch, knees together. Looking around the room, wide-eyes. So this is what being rich is. Big everything. Couches, walls, windows. The flag out the front. Even the family was big. Big and fat. They owned a North American fast food chain. They were North American. They were loud. "Look how SHY she is. So PRETTY! She should play with Jimmy." My tummy clenched. "Go play with Jimmy love." I looked at my parents. They nodded at me from over their coffees. Go on. I was practically an only child, my new brother was just a few months old. I was used to sitting with the adults. And, I hadn't liked the way Jimmy had looked. I didn't want to play with him. I didn't want to be alone with him. "Go on Tui."

I opened the door to his room reluctantly. It was an attic room. It was messy and there were oversized toys everywhere. His stomach pressed against his plaid shirt. I picked up a toy fire engine, trying to seem comfortable. "Want to see my penis?" He asked. I ran halfway down the stairs to the adults. Shocked and crying a bit, at the injustice of having to play with him. I sat there for a long time. Until it seemed normal for me to come back from playing. Then over to my mother, leaning against her, fingers twirling in her hair. Trying to tell her, trying to whisper. "What's she saying?" Jimmy's mother demanded. "JIMMY... Tui wants to play with you!" I put my thumb in my mouth and shook my head.

I wanted to go home. There weren't any seats near my parents, I had to sit on the other side of the big room. Jimmy came to get me. "No thank-you," I said. "Tui!" The adults exclaimed. "Don't be rude." Dad said to me. He apologized to Jimmy"s rich parents.

In the car on the way home I wasn't talked to. I had embarrassed everyone.