I was sitting in class, staring at an elderly man who had enrolled in the course, when I became full of fear and anxiety.

All I could think about was the idea that, unless I die young, I won’t always be the person who I recognize myself as.

There was a time in my life when almost everything that mattered, or defined me positively, was lost or taken away, through no choice of my own. I was young, and it was not a happy time.

And so, I started my life over, when virtually nothing was left; I was reborn at 21. (By reborn I absolutely do not mean in a religious manner.)

Some days I feel like I’m 10 years old, but also middle aged, but I look like a teenager.

I remember how when I was a kid, I couldn’t imagine being 18 — 20. I knew I would grow up, but the future was so far away. I would lie in bed, trying to stay as still as possible, hoping that I would actually get frozen in limbo, and not have to experience the terrifying ordeal of being old and become the face of imminent death. I think of how I’m 25 now, and 40 is still 15 years away. The time it took to reach 25 will have to pass all over again — my whole life span, until I reach 50. Terrifying?

And reading historical texts, in that class, where the elderly man sat, from over a thousand years ago reinforces how insignificant and useless angst is, when one day I will turn to dust and cease to be, whether or not I was momentarily pained over the notion of one day no longer being a hip, young thing.

“And I do not see how I can get out of asking this question: Does it matter to anyone or anything that all these peepholes were closed so suddenly? Since all the property is undamaged, has the world lost anything it loved?” – Kurt Vonnegut, Jr, Deadeye Dick

Qualities found ?)

-a need to justify opening a bottle of cheap wine when your co-conspirator has to bail due to a hangover

-watching 50 horror and sci-fi movies in chronological order, with the goal of aggregating some (as yet) unknown data related to… horror and sci-fi movies. (quasi-academics don’t do things for fun)

oh! in keeping on the subject of quasi-academics, such as myself, somebody needs to write a book titled something like “Relationship Advice for Academics: love lessons for those who are not as socially inept as pure-bred geeks, but still lack the proper social skills to form a loving relationship with something other than an abstract idea”

A person is not an abstract idea, technically.. But don’t let me go there.

Tip 1:

I don’t know what tip #1 is.

Which is why someone needs to be commissioned to write this.  The person should either be a refugee of academia, or a hack who is really, really good at pursuading overly-critical minded, individualistic, self-obsessed douche bag knowitalls that their words and advice will actually work.

Perhaps the description of characteristics possessed by said “douche bag”, who needs to be convinced by the latter hack, are the negative qualities that keep “overly-critical minded, individualistic, self-obsessed douche bag knowitalls” from being able to have a relationship.
OH SNAP.  My qualities which have disbarred me from ever having a real boyfriend have allowed me to determine the problem! The difference between myself, and the hack, is that the hack would most likely have some sort of practical suggestions; whereas, I am still waiting for the hack to give me a simple answer that I have made too complex to find.

OH SNAP.  I just wroke the geekery version of what, I guess, is the lame-ass Shakespearean/Kieregarard-y bullcrap rhetorical question of what the poet, Haddaway once asked: “WHAT IS LOVE”?

I was talking to some people about a short story I wrote back when I was teenager.  The story was about how I will die.  It stemmed from me telling them that “every time something great happens in my life, I thought ‘wouldn’t it be funny if I died today?’”  Wow.  That is so Vonnegut.  Anyway.  This is a little piece called “Social Anxiety hey hey hey” that I wrote when I was in highschool. Ha  ha ha.  Grammar etc. has not been edited, so that this can be enjoyed in its natural form.  Hilarious.

One day I’m gonna go outta my house and people will be all ‘Oh my god. I recognize you’. And I’ll say ‘what? what are you talking about? When did this happen?’ and it will seem like a horrible joke. [It's like that story I read in grade 9 English about the man who woke up and discovered he was the mayor of his town and didn't know how.]
‘I’d hate to become the people I hate’ I’ll complain. So then I’ll hop in the minivan with my dad and go to Wyoming. And go to Albuquerque and head west. Yeah, ba by. On Route 66. cause we never finished the trip. We only made it to Albuquerque last time. And then we’ll reach the coast. And I’ll be happy cause I made it. Then something disasterous will happen. I’ll be in West Hollywood eating a snocone on Santa Mon ica Boulevarde at a crosswalk. The cross walk will say ‘walk’ and i’ll walk. Then out of nowhere will come a speeding Chrysler that runs a red light and collides with me. Blood, Leora and Snocone all over the ground; All over the windshield. I’ll curse my self as I’m dying ‘I always said I’d die the one time I didn’t jay-walk …’

Dear Ms. Ross,

Ever since I was a child, I have enjoyed Manischewitz’s Matzo Ball Mix soup mix on Passover.  I am now a university student, and live far away from my home in Toronto, so I am not able to attend Seder anymore. I was quite happy to discover that it was easy to find the Matzo Ball Soup mix at my local grocery store, as Vancouver has a much smaller Jewish community.

I had never made the soup myself, but the first time it came out quite successful; the instructions were simple to follow, and both packets, to my recollection, were labelled clearly: one for the soup mix, and one for the matzo meal mix.

The second time that I purchased the Matzo Ball Mix, the two packets were not labelled, so I had to guess which was which.  The contents of both packages look and smell quite similar, and it is hard to differentiate between powdered matzo meal and powdered soup mix.

Annoyed, but confident enough that I could make the right choice, I selected a package and prepared what I thought to be the matzo mix as per instructions.  Upon mixing together the eggs, the vegetable oil, and the “matzo meal”, I noticed that the colour seemed incorrect for matzo balls.  I thought that maybe it was just because I was using extra virgin olive oil, instead of canola oil this time.  I soon realized that I had gotten the two packets mistaken for each other when I put added what I thought to be the “soup mix” to my pot of water.

I was left with a giant pot of inedible sludge that had to be flushed down the toilet, and subsequently followed by half a bottle of Drain-o to prevent clogging.  I was also disappointed, because I really do like matzo ball soup.

I figured that this was just some weird one-off fluke, and that the next time I purchased the Manishewitz Matzo Ball Mix, the packets would be labeled correctly; this was not the case.  This afternoon, I experienced the same problem, and once again, guessed incorrectly, even after asking both of my roommates for their input!

Manishewitz has been known as the quintessential company to purchase easy-to-make and tasty, traditional Kosher food for as long as anyone can remember, but the lack of labeling makes for a confusing and often wasteful use of foodstuffs.

I would recommend that Manishewitz labels both packets of the Matzo Ball Mix soup mix product, otherwise people like myself will not be able to enjoy your soups, as we once did.

Thank you,

Leora

I’m trying to write as much as humanly possible for my portfolio.

This attempt at poetry is difficult.  It’s easier to write late  at night when I’m growing tired and can’t second guess myself so much.

The past week or so I had been drinking a lot.

Again.

I said:

“Whenever we hang out, we always end up getting drunk.  I don’t want to do this anymore.  I don’t want to associate you with drinking, or associate drinking with you.”

I dumped my drink over the front porch, just to see if I could.

“Sorry”

I didn’t pay for the whiskey.

I’m not as strong as the aforementioned action would suggest, because I still took another swig from the bottle.

Friendships can be unhealthy on more than one level.

When I was in Toronto, I was rummaging through the boxes of stuff I have in storage and came across two pieces of paper.  One was “Journal #10″ and the other was “Journal #11″ for Grade 9 English.  In this class, we would be given a question/topic to write one page about.  I thought I would post them here, because they are kind of funny and obnoxious.

Note that both journal entries begin with the same statement:

Journal #10 – The Telephone and its role in a teenager’s life 

I find this question quite offensive.  It discludes [is that even a real word?] life of Amish people who do not use telephones for communicating.  They are less inept at talking face to face.  If they were more shy, they’d use telephones too.

Some people who phone you talk for too long and don’t know when to shut their chatterbox [I was trying to restrain myself from swearing].  I don’t like talking on the phone, I prefer to talk in person with someone.

It’s good to have a phone with a little red light so you can tell if someone’s listening to you.

Sometimes you can’t tell if you’re really talking to the person you wanted to.  For example, my friend Chris has a brother who sounds exactly like him.  If he answers the phone, he pretends to be Chris until I say something  that makes him go “Ha ha! This is Matthew!” He’s a loser.

Telephones are not a big importance unless your friends live in Hawaii.  In that case, the telephone is important because otherwise you couldn’t talk to them.

Mark: 5/5. Teacher’s comment: “This would be a good idea for a story!”

#11 Thanksgiving: What I am thankful for

I find this question quite  offensive, because I am not thankful for Thanksgiving.

Actually, I am thankful only a handful of relatives showed up at my house for Thanksgiving.  I’m thankful I don’t eat turkey, our turkey was not featherless when my mom bought it.  It’s good to be vegetarian.

I am thankful that this Wednesday, coffee is only 16 cents a cup at Coffee Time meaning I could get 13 coffees for $2.08.  I think I’ll spend 5$ instead, because I’m thankful for finding a 5 dollar bill in my pocket this morning.

I’m thankful not to be sitting at Linda’s table, as she is annoying and creates quite an offensive sound.

Last of all, I’m thankful I’m not because.  If I were, I wouldn’t be able to write in my journal all the things I’m thankful for at this moment.

I am thankful my cat is getting spayed on Wednesday.

Mark: 5/5. Peer editing comment: “Amen – Chas”

I arrived at the airport and promptly sat down at the bar. I popped a Valium; ordered a glass of red wine.  Oh, to be your typical tortured artist, jetsetter wanna be. 

I sat there and thought about how every time I have flown somewhere, there was always a pang in my heart, somehow related to travel.

 Some people fly for business.  Some people fly for leisure.  I fly as a form of self medication, or so it seems.  Moving to escape my past;  to start over a new leaf; to see someone you are madly in love with, or think you are; to surround your self with your friends in a time of need; to give yourself and others space who so greatly need it; to not be homesick; to get the fuck out of one place and get the fuck somewhere else, but wish there was a place between point A and point B in which you could hide forever.

Then there are those candid conversations that you have at the airport bar with all the other heavily medicated jetsetter wannabes. The lonely cliches, hunched over their pint, or gracefully attemping to sip on a martini. 

Yesterday afternoon I met a man from England who now lives in Winnipeg.  We talked about terrorism and we talked about love.

When I got here, Byron, Gigi and my mom were all there, and I let my larynx explode with vicious words, detailing everything I had needed to express, but could not in the same context from 3000 miles away.  I felt better.

Casey  got home at 3:30 AM, so we stayed up till 5:30, smoking, drinking red wine, and most importantly, talking.

I love my brothers, and it is so wonderful to be home.

Put a pretty smile on a burlap sack.

It’s sure a pretty smile, but it’s still a burlap sack.

Put the burlap sack with some other burlap sacks; put a pretty smile on the burlap sack.

It’s still a burlap sack, but it’s better than the other ones.

Put a smiling burlap sack in a room full of nothing.

Nothing is better than a smiling burlap sack.

1) Meet a girl at a party.

2) Accuse her of being a lesbian

3) Make out with said girl; she is trying to prove that she is not a lesbian. She is not a lesbian.
4) Communicate occasionally with said girl. You go to school with her roommate, so you may cross paths now and then.

5) Run into girl on the beach at some wack-ass-ritualistic-hippy-dippy-goat-sacrificingly-primal “holiday”.

6) Flirt with girl; tell her you want to “make love” to her and whatnot.

7) Have girl come home with you; watch Ren and Stimpy briefly.

8.) Get a message from girl cause she thinks it’s funny that she got interviewed on the street, while looking like ass due to spending a night at the beach and then staying at someone else’s place. You see, telling a person who knows where you were the night before has more relevance than telling someone who just thinks you look rough shape. Makes sense, doesn’t it.

9) Get contacted by girl the next day. Just a little, inane comment or two. Those 30 seconds spent out of the 86 400 seconds in a day are clearly the result of a great deal of new-found devotion from that girl. The idea of communicating with someone EVER after they spend the night at your place is unfathomable. How creepy. Fucking creepy.

10) Send girl a message over the website Facebook.com saying “I just hope I’m not your new favourite past time Leora.”

Ever felt really, really insulted?

My favourite pastimes include chain smoking, sleeping all day, writing, mainlining Prozac, not cleaning my room, playing with my bunny, reading, preparing for the Apocalypse, watching Home Movies, quoting the Simpsons, playing Super Double Dragon (newfound pastime), hanging out with my roommates, watching hockey and stalking vainglorious art school students.

I’ve sat in an airport, waiting hours for my plane to take off. I’ve sat on stools at airport bars, as a teenager, hunched over my double vodka soda; my double black Russian; my glass of red wine: surrounded by lonely, broken businessmen who were drinking $7.45 pints of Molson Draft, while drunkenly chatting up the bartender about absolutely nothing.

I always seemed to be able to join in on the conversation about absolutely nothing. Relate. I don’t know why. In those airports, everyone becomes everyone else. Not zombies or drones. Just everybody else. Uniform in an overpriced limbo full of little uncertainty, but maximum apprehension.

You can talk about absolutely nothing, because you enter into this strange little world. I can remember thinking of painful thoughts; emotional baggage waiting for me at my destination, to replace the emotional baggage I had left behind. But somehow it couldn’t plague me at an airport.

That cliche of being surrounded by thousands of people, while simultaneously so alone, can’t ever be applied to an international airport. Maybe you are alone. Maybe I was emotionally alone, but that aloneness is the most amazing thing ever. I don’t know why.

How is it peaceful — relaxing, to be rushing from gate to gate? To be sighing over 3$ coffees and 8$ garden salads in the departure terminals? To be bumping into obnoxious people; listening to screaming, crying children; being sandwiched between frat boys on the bar-plane (red eye) home, all the while knowing you have something waiting for you and something you’re trying to shake off?

Are those romantic ideas? Is it more romantic to brood over the inconveniences, the detachment associated with flying from city to city? Is that more romantic than hoping that the love of your life will surprise you by standing in the arrivals terminal, much to your surprise?

I expected to be greeted by a cab driver, not the man of my dreams. He brought me cigarettes and a toothbrush. He told me how much he missed me, and loved me, and how he was waiting for the day I would return.

That is not romance, that is self-indulgence.

You don’t even know it.

Blah blah blah blah blah feelings.

Emo? No.

My brain is going on vacation soon…

What? feelings? Why? Who? Huh……

Moooooooore than a feeeeeeling!111 When I hear that old sooon plaaaaaaay?!?!?!&*@#*&$^*&@#$

Good old AABA compound form songs, eh.

Boston…. Massachussetts … New Hampshire…..West Chesterfield.

Couches…… chairs….. chairman of the bored. Iggy Pop……

Tangents.

Tangerines.

Mighty morphine power rangers.

Stomp on your heart.

Stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp stomp stomp stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

.

It is certainly not about you.

Enjoy the stomping.

(stomp stomp stomp)

happy st. patrick’s day.

i have bright yellow food dye on my hands.

stomp

stomp

stompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstomp

video games

i like them.

stomp stomp

stomp

your heart.

not mine.

thus, I win.

My heart is unstompable.