People being friendly? I am not equipped.

I’m obviously too white to leave my apartment alone in this neighbourhood. Not because I’m afraid of getting shot, or mugged, or raped, or yadda yadda. No. Just because it’s socially awkward. Why is that my main concern? I told you. I’m white. Very, very white (scroll dowwwwwwwn).

I have no idea how to respond to any sentence beginning “girl, you…” or “damn [anything]”. I don’t know where I’m going with “all that”. No, I don’t feel the need to “slow it down”. So, guy in the pimp hat, and guy with the too-big pants that could clothe an entire nation… I’m not trying to be rude, but you see, this is not a skill I learned in Canada. The only phrases I was taught for use in public places are “excuse me” and “I’m sorry”. I could maybe work out a response to “nice day, isn’t it?” (yes, it is), “you goin’ to the Cubs game?” (no, I live near here), or “[tension breaking joke about some weirdo on the train or the fact that the train is awfully crowded, and oops, I accidentally touched you]” (yeah, don’t you love the CTA [tentative laugh]?). But beyond that, I’m afraid I’m lost.

Is there a class I can take somewhere?

I think I’ve got some Tyler Durden-esque scenario going on

I didn’t take Monday off of work so that I could stay in Toronto a) because I wanted to see Metric on Sunday, and b) because I’d be fucking myself over come Tuesday, ’cause ain’t no one else gonna do my work for me…

So, what happens on Monday? Migraine from hell. Spent the entire day in bed. I blame United Airlines for cancelling my flight and messing up my carefully scheduled lack-of-sleep plan. And now, I’m fucked. I’ve gotta stay here until I finish all of yesterday’s work, and today’s work, too. Every second I waste (uh, just like I’m wasting ’em now) is another second I have to stay in this cubicle.

Should have just stayed in Toronto, gone shopping, gone to see Cyanotic in Burlington (which I hear somehow wasn’t awful? WTF? I guess there’s just nothing else to do in Burlington?), and blah blah blah.

I slept for at least 20 hours yesterday, but I feel like I haven’t slept in weeks. Either I have multiple personalities that take over when the one named “Candice” is unconscious, or I should probably see a sleep specialist.

Fish-belly off-white

SDC10067, originally uploaded by raymilauren.

Carrying on… my sister Laurel and I were rescued from the fate of spending money we don’t have on Queen St. by a trip to The Issssssssland with Raymi, Phil, Casie and Dave.

Poor Laurel and I aren’t used to this thing you mortals call “the sun”, so excuse us if we were out of sorts (or just altogether too drunk!). Personally, I call that orb in the sky the Day Star, and it burrrrrns us! Look how “pale” Raymi (middle) is (sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm). I thought I had only managed to burn my shoulders and freckleize my face, but I noticed a tan line (what?) on my ass (not pictured) earlier today. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m also not sure how I didn’t burst into flames. So, anyone who sees me in the near future… this is me with a tan. Pity me, pity me, pity me.

Oh, by the way… I changed my hair again, or rather, removed most of it. I was informed that I look very much different from photos of myself online, but there’s a mathematical law (related to the study of Bistromathics) that states that my appearance in any photograph is necessarily completely unrelated to my appearance in person. I can’t be bothered to keep my avatars and such up to date. By the time I change the darn things everywhere, I’ll look completely different, anyway. Some people are convinced I’m a chameleon.

Babbling re-commences next time I can convince my lily-beige ass to stay in one place for five minutes. We’re having a restless day today.

Clonazepam x10

When I got on the CTA blue line after work to head to the airport, and ultimately to Toronto, I started reading “The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul” by Douglas Adams. I’ve read it several times before, but not for ages. So I didn’t remember how it started out. Here are the first few paragraphs, which I should have taken as a warning:

It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on Earth
has ever produced the expression “as pretty as an airport”.

Airports are ugly. Some are very ugly. Some attain a
degree of ugliness that can only be the result of a special
effort. This ugliness arises because airports are full of
people who are tired, cross, and have just discovered that
their luggage has landed in Murmansk (Murmansk airport is the
only known exception to this otherwise infallible rule), and
architects have on the whole tried to reflect this in their

They have sought to highlight the tiredness and crossness
motif with brutal shapes and nerve jangling colours, to make
effortless the business of separating the traveller for ever
from his or her luggage or loved ones, to confuse the traveller
with arrows that appear to point at the windows, distant tie
racks, or the current position of Ursa Minor in the night sky,
and wherever possible to expose the plumbing on the grounds
that it is functional, and conceal the location of the
departure gates, presumably on the grounds that they are not.

Airports can go to hell. No, airports are hell. Hell is one gigantic fucking airport, and every flight out of it is cancelled.

I eventually got to Toronto, though. Saturday morning. Early. And since I can’t really say I would have ended up doing much Friday night at midnight, when I was supposed to get there, I guess it’s not that big of a deal. Except that I was ideally planning to sleep on Friday night, at some point. Instead, I spent what was left of the night (not much) at the O’Hare Hilton. I hadn’t had a chance to eat anything since before my cancelled flight was supposed to depart, so I ate a $5 package of peanut M&Ms from the mini-bar and watched “Twilight”, which was every bit as horrible as I could have wished it to be. Lovely night. If you’re into hiking around an airport lost for five hours, being led around on a wild goose chase by contradictory arrows, and then not sleeping. Which I totally am.

(For what it’s worth, yes, I suppose it’s possible to get to the east by going far enough to the west. But I don’t think, if I was in charge of putting up the signs, that I’d try to pass that off as a viable option. Then again, I’m pretty sure that whomever put up the arrows at O’Hare was on crack. Here’s how you get to the Hilton check-in (not labelled on any map I checked, BTW): go up an escalator, go down another escalator, walk in a complete circle around terminal 2, go up OR down an elevator (your choice — they both lead nowhere), go outside and walk around the outside of the entire airport, go up an escalator, go down an escalator, go up an escalator, go all the way to terminal 5 for no particular reason, and then finally determine that the signs are full of shit, do the exact opposite of what they say, and find the damned thing by accident. Gee, why are all the people standing here waiting to check in drinking? And where’s my drink, dammit?)

I find that I need to take a break to bash my head into a wall for a while before continuing, so… hang on there.

Goodbye, Wednesday

Every car on the red line has either one or two single seats in the back. All of the other seats are paired. I don’t know why the singles are never among the first to be taken. I’m glad, though, because those seats are MINE, dammit. Sittin in one now.

Maybe people don’t like them because they’re sideways. I agree, getting thrown left and right instead of forward and back is definitely annoying. But not as annoying as having some fatass take up half of you seat along with theirs, or smelling someone’s awful breath (or even just the smell of their gum, knowing that that air was just in THEM — eughhh), or having someone talk loudly on their phone next to you, or block you in when you’re trying to get out (maybe, just MAYBE they do a half swivel, assholes), or fucking… fall asleep on you. Helllls no. I needs my personal space.

Besides… unless there are two single seats (there usually aren’t), you’re not facing anyone. It’s so much easier to avoid eye contact that way. And there’s no one to read over your shoulder (some people, like me, are paranoid about that kind of thing) (or just everything).

Not that I don’t stare at people on the train. I just do it the sneaky way: by pretending to look out the window while I’m actually checking out people’s reflctions in the glass. When there’s anyone interesting to look at, I mean. I usually ride at rush hour. Clones clones clones clones clones. Clones in the morning get of at Lake. Clones in the evening get off… uh… well, lots of ’em get off at my stop. But I ain’t one of ’em, I swears! I’m not wearing flip-flops nor anything by North Face, I don’t have highlighted hair that’s slightly past my shoulders, and my handbag doesn’t have a single bloody logo on it. I’m not reading “Eat, Pray, Live”, or anything on Oprah’s list. I am, however, fiddling with my phone. But I’m not checking my work e-mail, because then I’d have to kill myself.

Fuck all that. I’m not getting off at that stop today. I’ll get off at Wilson. Shorter walk. Slightly greater chance of getting mugged. “Doors open on the left at Wilson.” “Minorities other than Asians get off the train at Wilson.”

It’s obviously past my bedtime

I went to bed at 7pm yesterday. Slept for maybe 6 or 7 hours. Quickly losing all capacity for logical thought. Tried to get through the subway turnstile without swiping my card. Seriously didn’t know what I was doing wrong for a second. Feh! At least there’s not a Cubs game that people are trying to get to. If I had to stand up, well… I’d probably fall down.

Reminds me of the one morning I got on the bus to go to work without realizing I had a fever and was rapidly becoming ill. I had to stand, of course. Those were the days when, like an idiot, I worked at 9:00am, so I always had to stand. I mean, I live at what, the third stop on the route? So, obviously. Anyway, I started feeling lightheaded, and wound up on the floor of that bus with my head between my knees, trying to stay conscious. Guess how many people asked me if I was okay or offered me a seat.

Yeah, whatevs. What was I talking about? Oh yeah, rambling in some sort of inane manner, I think. Got mistaken for an art student again today. But see, I only went to art school long enough to fake being arty before I dropped out. Which is really all you need, because art is bullshit, and bullshitting is an art. The only art, if you ask me (which you didn’t, but fuck you).

I got my passport stamped with temporary proof of permanent residency status today. Once again, I am a number! That kinda stinks, but it’s a step up from being nothing at all, like I was yesterday.

I think my A-number is the only number that identifies me without every second digit being a 7. Okay, and my phone number. There’s no pattern. A few of them are just similar, and I’m probably mildly dyslexic (or retarded).

I don’t want to go home, because there are responsibilities there. But I don’t have any money, so I can’t avoid it buying shoes. I’ve bought a lot of shoes lately.

This is the point of my train ride where I usually check whether there will be a northbound bus at the station south of my apartment, or a southbound bus at the station north of my apartment.

I’m too busy writing this right now to do that. So I figure I’ll take the option that involves encountering less hobos, and maybe I’ll get lucky.

Unfortunately, the non-hobo station is populated by frat boys. There’s no winning. The station before that…. tourists and cubs fans. Before that, hipsters. I like to guess where people are going to get off.

I’m pretty sure I look like I should have gotten off two stops ago, coming home from art school.

Okay, I’m at the station.

Imposition is Impolite

Charities send you mailing labels so that you are more likely to reciprocate by giving them a gift in return. One that’s obviously more valuable than mailing labels, lest you seem cheap. Well, pfft! I use the labels (though I’ll only use the PETA ones to send my rent cheque — don’t want anyone I give a shit about thinking I support PETA), but I send the same amount of money to the same charities anyway. Candice doesn’t fall for any of this psychological manipulatory crapitude.

Beggars and Streetwise pushers use the same trick all the time. Opening doors for you to create cognitive dissonance. They did something for you, and now you owe them. Well fuck off. I didn’t ask you to open the door. I resent you for imposing an unecessary social situation on me, and for being asshatty enough to think I’ll get some sort of feeling of obligation out of it.

“Not even a smile?” No. You didn’t earn it. Quite the opposite. “Helpful” beggars are much more annoying than the regular sort.

The only thing I can think of that’s more irritating is someone employed to be a beggar. No, I don’t want to save the children, whales, or America. It’s almost charity harrassment season. You pricks: you are the reason a normal person looking for directions can’t get anyone to pay attention to them. Legitimate questions are much rarer than bullshit and invitations to try a new salon for free (BTW how insulting is that one — is my hair really that bad?), so it’s become instinctual to look away from anyone in the street who looks like they want to chat.

And the next one who asks me “are you always so antisocial” or otherwise insults me for not taking a flyer or saving polar bears is getting an earful, I promise. Same goes for you, door-holding asswipe.

I’m hungover.

081 Candice 1982, originally uploaded by Allan_Green.

Have a cookie. Yeah, that’s me. 1982 yo. OK. Hibernation time. 8-10 inches of snow? Coldest weather in 15 years coming? GOODNIGHT!

The horror!

The horror!, originally uploaded by leepus.

Just found this picture of myself that I hadn’t seen before (I’m the one in white, being corrupted by vampires). Wondering why I haven’t been out of the house much lately, let alone done anything comparatively mad. Sick of being a shut in. Well. Fuck.

(Edit: P.S. This shit was fucking hot. Must resolve to have clothing ripped off by numerous hot women more often. And what the fucking fuck, I was fucking THIN back then. No more food, ever.)

It’s Fuggs season again

Uggs., originally uploaded by jane.b.

No. No no no no. No, fucking no. NO! No. No no no no no no no no no. Hell no. Hell fucking no. Negatory. Nein. Nope. Non. Ne. Nyet. Nee.

No flip-flops in summer. No fucking Uggs in winter. No fucking goddamn Crocs in any weather. Please stop. Please.

Wear any of these with yoga pants, and I don’t know what I’ll have to do to you.

Add a clonetastic North Face jacket, and quite possibly my brain will explode.

Cease and desist, immediately. I *will* report you to the fashion police. Is there a fashion FBI? Some of the worst offenders might even require action by the fashion secret service.