When answering phones for a living it is essential to wear floral patterns in order to keep a positive attitude towards the dumpster fires of humanity that call in with customer complaints. “Sexy Librarian” chic will further ensure that you are attractive yet non-threatening towards said dumpster fires who come to complain in person.


Damn that global warming!

skiesCross-country skiing: the gentleman’s winter sport, thought Edgar Doubledorp. He’d waited a long time for snow this year and it wasn’t until February that there was finally enough powder in his neighbourhood to warrant a jaunt to the park. He’d gone up north once or twice to enjoy their relatively heavy snowfalls, though even up there it hadn’t been as glorious as in his youth. But today was just such a day of glory. There were nearly 50 centimeters out there already with no signs of letting up. The snow was just wet enough to be easily packed, but also powdery enough to allow for easy gliding. There was so much snow in fact that Edgar even skied all the way to the park, as the sidewalks and roads in between had enough coverage to keep him afloat above the asphalt.

Could there be anything more pleasurable that sliding along a blanket of white in absolute still and quiet? Certainly not. Even the shrieks of children having a snowball fight was dampened by the crystal covering. Everything was quiet and peaceful. Along the edge of the park he spied a foodtruck selling hot chocolate and he swished his way over for a treat. As he stood there, sipping his drink, the snowfall lessened, and the sun peaked out from behind the clouds. He finished his hot chocolate and kept along his journey, only to find the sun was getting rather insistent. He stopped a moment to unzip his parka and take out his sunglasses. A few minutes later it became necessary to remove his coat altogether and tie it around his waist. A few minutes after that, even his thermal shirt was becoming uncomfortable.

There was nothing for it but to head home. Edgar turned around with the intention of retracing his tracks, only to find said tracks disappearing. The snow was melting, and fast! He quickened his pace and kept pushing along, dragging his skis through what was increasingly become more wet grass than snow.

When he reached the edge of the park, he pushed up his sleeves, and surveyed the streets before him. The sun was beating down as though it carried a particular vendetta against him but if he hurried he might be able to make it before all the snow was gone. He rushed along the sidewalks, earning himself quizzical looks from passersby in flip-flops, as his skis scraped along the concrete.

He wasn’t even halfway home when he came across an ice cream truck serving cones to children engaged in a water fight. Nearby, a man regarded his vehicle in confusion, staring at the snow scraper in his hand. He caught Edgar’s eye and shook his head in disbelief. Wielding the snow scraper like an axe he raised it above his head and hurled it across his lawn, and it landed by a bush that was threatening to sprout. Edgar followed suit and took off not only his skis but his ski shoes as well, tossing them beside the discarded snow scraper. He and the man looked to each other and nodded with satisfaction. This was littering to be sure, but in this infernal climate, one could not be expected to remain gentlemanly!



When copywriting it helps to wear a turquoise top with purple tights. These cool colours will keep you chill as you look for ways in which to market pointless products to people who don’t need them.


June 12, 1992

I am sad, sad, sad, in the depths of despair.

                                Maybe I’d just reread Anne of Green Gables or something…

It was storming earlier, I wish it would start again. I love lying in my bed with thunder shaking my heart and lightning lighting up my room and my flame.

                              My flame?!?!?

I get so excited at midnight tempêtes (French word for storm). They are the best way to get excited in real life. But the storm was mild and now is gone and I am sad. I have a bunch of new S.P.F. fantasies… SIGH. Every time I read I get wrapped up in my dreams and have to reread and reread the passages.

                               I still have that problem. I mean, not the celebrity crush fantasies, but difficulty concentrating while I read.

I have a headache and there is nothing like real life and I hate it. I don’t hate myself anymore. Now I hate people (except for S.P.F.) My pen is running out and so is my time.

                                  Oh geez. Was I trying to be poetic?

When will I be famous?

                                   Ahh yes, the eternal question. *eye roll*

That, along with meeting S.P.F. is my unattainable goal. 

                              Well, at least I knew these goals were unattainable.

I want to die an old maid.

                            Yeah, I must have been reading Anne of Green Gables.

Literally I don’t ever want my virginity to be robbed from me. Although I must admit I would give it to S.P.F. if he wanted it and he wore protection.

                             LOL! I was cringing and then I saved it with some good old ’90s sex ed.

I will save myself for him. So I guess I will die a young maid.

                           All I need now is a fainting couch.

I have changed in a year. I used to want a boyfriend, now I don’t. Unless of course it was S.P.F.

                           Yes, of course.

All the other guys I’ve liked I didn’t like the way I was feeling about them. But I like this feeling of devotion to S.P.F. He is different than all the others. It’s odd. Another thing that’s odd is that I’m writing so much in here lately. And when I start I can’t stop and I keep rereading it.

Purple moons and dancing shadows and bleeding tears and scary clouds and all those things.

                            I just… I mean… at least I never said things like that out loud.

If when I reread this, it doesn’t make sense, that’s ok, it doesn’t make sense now. PEOPLE ALPHABET. My next step, really… Don’t dig too deep.



                      Seems legit


TPS reports

When handing in TPS reports, it helps to wear a kicky mini with a matching sheer top involving a neck bow. Top it off with a jaunty floral blazer and matching tights and heels. Your supervisor will be blown away by how girly and yet professional you can be when doing unpaid overtime.


The green line

metroThe first thing to be considered in this situation, as in any situation, was the safety of innocent bystanders. The man knew the best thing to do would be to carry out the deed in the privacy of his own home, where no one else would be bothered, with the use of something non-violent like pills, or perhaps a razor blade to the wrists. But the man, who thought of himself as a reasonably empathetic person, wanted, if he was being honest, other people to be bothered. He wanted the event to make the news. He wanted to be known, for once in his life, as a person who had accomplished something interesting. Gruesome perhaps, but interesting none the less. This act was selfish of course, but he was tired of being unselfish. He was sick of being the one who always handed in his work on time, of being the one who always held doors open for others, of being the one who always agreed with the consensus, even though he didn’t actually agree. He wanted, truly, to be disagreeable.

Still, there was no need for anyone else to be put in danger. His first idea had been to jump off a bridge, but that would cause a collision and many drivers and passengers would possibly be killed, and certainly traumatized. On the metro, only the driver of the train would be traumatized, and STM workers were all assholes anyway.

The man chose Lionel-Groulx station because it was busy, and important, but not quite as important as Berri-Uqam. He walked up to the platform on the orange line several times, but lost his nerve, and thought perhaps the green line would be better, because it used the older train cars. No use ruining one of the new cars. He rode the escalator up and down a few times, waiting for the crowd to dissipate. He wanted witnesses but not too many, not enough that they’d be able to stop him. He got off the escalator and stopped, considering his clothes. What a waste, he thought, to ruin a perfectly good dress shirt and pair of slacks. Yet undressing would attract undue attention. Still, his shoes were in excellent shape, and had only been purchased two weeks prior. He carefully took the off and placed them at the top of the escalator, hoping another man with size 10 feet would be able to make some use of them.

Finally, he knew he was ready. He stood at the edge of the platform, where very few others were standing, and waited to hear the train. He sang a nursery rhyme in his head in order to keep doubtful thoughts at bay, and when he would see the headlights, when he could see the man driving the train, he jumped, secure in the knowledge that this was in fact, the right decision.