How To Deal With Jerk Bosses (If You’re Bianca D.)

Over the last several months, a surprising number of people has approached me demanding I start posting again. I’ve honestly never felt more flattered and am telepathically high-fiving all of you right now. Can you feel it? I hope so. But guys, maintaining a blog is hard work. It might look like fun and games but it’s actually the worst. Writer’s bloc is a tough bitch to beat. Still, your comments have been so heartwarming that I decided to try to write again.

I should mention that things probably won’t be like they used to. The name ‘Bad Bangs’ doesn’t even really make sense anymore – I’ve outgrown my frustrating grade school haircut and Maria, having been in a committed relationship for years now, no longer has hilarious tales of sexual misadventure to share with us. I’d like to pick up where she left off but I never bang anyone. Everyone is gross. I’ll have to try to entertain you through topics of a different nature.

If you’re wondering what’s happened in my life over the last while, the answer is not much. I’ve had lots of ups (finishing university, great times with friends, memorable meals) and lots of downs (heartbreak, death, working out a lot and seeing my boobs shrink). I wish I could have a better update for you, but I don’t.

I do, however, have a story so good it made me laugh until I got a stomach ache. My good friend Bianca (whose ridiculous life I will no doubt dedicate entire posts to) used to work at a cafe  downtown. Her bosses were a married couple. Bianca hated them. They stepped all over her. After a while, they started giving her giving her less and less hours. It seemed as though they resorted to this because they didn’t have the balls to fire her. She eventually stopped working there altogether; I can’t remember if she quit or if they let her go.

At first she was relieved but as time went on, she couldn’t find another job. The money she’d saved quickly ran out and she was getting desperate. Ironically, the cafe called, begging  her to return to work. Obviously she would have rathered die in a fire than work there again, but the situation seemed to play out to her advantage. She needed money, and they needed her.

Her joy was short-lived. After just a few shifts, they told her something along the lines of, “fuck u lol we found someone else, go away” and she was out of a job yet again. Bianca was pissed. Who did these assholes think they were?

On her last shift, she called me asking how she could fuck their shit up. I told her to smear a turd all over the place. She agreed that this way no doubt the best thing to do. As she went to buy cigarettes on her break, she ran into a hobo she knows (?). He’s apparently doing well for himself now – has an apartment and a job. She told him about her day, and how she wanted to screw her bosses over. He said he could help her out.

Bianca returned to the cafe and soon enough, her friend appeared – and he wasn’t alone. He’d brought another hobo. A wasted one. Together they yelled absurdities, flailed their arms and the drunk one even barfed. The owners demanded they leave but the men weren’t having it. Bianca’s face beamed with happiness (note that she was ecstatic at the rush revenge provided; not at the possible addictions and psychological problems said poor men may sadly have).

Everything worked out in the end – Bianca got the last laugh and even ended up finding another job. She promised me that she’s dedicating her first paycheck to taking me to the shooting range. What a friend!

OK that’s all.



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Biggest Fear

I’m taking a little break from living alone – not because I’m scared shitless of ghosts and rapists attacking me in the night, but because I really needed to do laundry. In case you’re wondering, I do have a washer and dryer but the last time I used the dryer it kind of exploded or something and then my fire alarm went off and that shit is LOUD so I decided never to use it again. So yeah, I got home to my parents’ at about midnight or 1 this morning (after seeing Inception! *SPOILER ALERT*: do you think the ending was a dream?). My parents are away and my brother was sleeping. I tip-toed into the washroom to complete my nightly routine of pissing and then tooth brushing. After flushing, I approached the sink. That’s when it happened. I noticed something so grotesque my eyes popped out of their sockets a little bit. There, right in the middle of the sink, was a HUGE effing moth. I’ve never seen one this big. It was the mother of all moths. It may have been the mothman from the Mothman Prophecies. I ran out of the bathroom, slammed the door and haven’t been back in there since.

Moths are approximately one million times scarier than ghosts and rapists. They are my biggest fear. I can’t explain why. I kill spiders by squishing them with my index finger. Sometimes I even let them live because they don’t bother me. But moths. I can’t even. They are repulsive. And did you ever kill one? It’s like they’re made of dust. If you accidentally kill one on your jeans, their dusty asses will stain your denim. I find this more disgusting than cannibalism. While we’re on the subject, I’m equally scared of butterflies. Horrible creatures.

So now I’m screwed. My house has three bathrooms but I only ever use the one the moth is currently in. I can’t poop (and I really have to), brush my teeth or shower. I’m going to have to change my entire life because of this. I want to check if the moth has died yet but I can’t bring myself to open the door. What if it flies out? What if after it flies out, it goes into my room, hides in my sheets and touches my body at night? That would really freak me out! Their wings have a super weird consistency! They’re like velvet, and I coincidentally can’t stand velvet. Touching it sends shivers down my spine. When I was 14 and going through my short-lived goth phase, I’d shop at Cruella and have no choice but to avoid 3/4 of the merchandise.

So WTF do I do about this thing? Also, what are you scared of? I’m pretty terrified of mimes and bridges but my mottephobia really takes the cake. I wanted to post a picture of a big gross moth to go along with this post but my eyes automatically squinted and closed as soon as I typed the search words in.



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I Live Alone

I bought a condo last year. I’ve been set on moving out since I was 19 so I was really stoked. I wanted to rent an apartment but my parents were all, “Italian people don’t rent.” They don’t? That can’t possibly be right. Anyway, I bought my place before it was built; that way, I got it for cheap (I don’t think I could get a closet in NYC for the price I paid), I got to customize how I wanted it to look and I had time to save extra cash. I actually saved over $20,000, which is pretty epic for me. Speaking of epic things, I used words like “mortgage”, “down payment” and “backsplash” for the first time. Those are adult words! But it’s cool; that’s just stuff you say when you’re a grown up.

I officially moved in a week ago.  After all these years of anticipation, I finally did it. And so far, it’s been fun. I mean, it’s not exhilarating – I don’t have cable or internet yet – but it’s fun. I ride Bixi bikes. I hang out in my underwear every day. I sit around. I drink a lot of beer. I eat the outer chocolaty layer of my Swiss Rolls, then open up the cake part, then lick off the cream, then eat the cake. I fart a lot. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m living the dream…

But there’s a problem. I can only live the dream during the day. I’m scared shitless at night. I was fine for the first couple of nights, but then someone knocked on my bedroom window at 4 o’clock in the morning. Who does that? I’m on the bottom floor (which is a nice way of saying I’m in the fucking basement) so I feel like this has the potential to happen often. Now when I go to sleep, I subconsciously force myself to wake up every hour to make sure I’m alive. There is a knife and an extremely bright flashlight in my night table; I don’t think I could ever stab someone but I could definitely try to blind them. I’m thinking of getting a gun. Again, I probably won’t ever use it (except at the shooting range because I’m kind of a bad ass) but I think it’ll be good to have. And I could call it my ‘piece’, you know.

I hate that I’m so paranoid. Since I’ve moved, I’ve seen a shirtless man smoking crack, three shirtless men with mental health problems, and 15 to 20 shirtless men drinking 40s. Does no one work or wear shirts in this neighborhood? I also found a syringe on the ground and saw a cyclist get hit by a car. Oh, and I read that a crazy guy randomly stabbed three people, including a 74 year old man, at a cafe a short walk from my place. Oddly, none of this scared me. It’s really the knocking on my window that freaked me out. You have no idea how terrified I was. I was covered in sweat (even moreso than usual). I somehow brought myself to look outside but it was too dark to see anything. My friend Vince tried to calm me down by saying it was a ghost but that made it worse.

How can I stop worrying at night? Will I be a scaredy cat forever?



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Summer Bummer: Sweat

I’m pretty sure I have a sweating problem. Or like, a sweating disease. The weird thing is that I rarely get pit stains or B.O. or any other tell-tale signs of perspiration – I’m just constantly covered in a thin but very shiny coat of sweat. Every part of my body sweats equally. Sometimes I swear I can feel my hair sweating. I know it sounds like I’m whining but trust me, it’s bothersome. It’s been especially annoying this week as Montreal is currently experiencing a heatwave. In the span of four days, my disease has gotten nine to ten times worse. I think my skin is melting. It wouldn’t be so bad if I felt others were as miserable as I am, but no, everyone seems to be tolerating the scorching weather quite well. While I am forced to alternate between my two pairs of acceptable length jean shorts and white or black t-shirts (any other color will reveal my extreme sweating), perfect Montreal girls are prancing around all over the city in their vintage summer dresses and cute shoes. Bitches! I am so, so jealous. I want to wear dresses and not have my bare thighs rub together, working up a heat so intense it feels like I’m dying in a fire. I want to wear strappy sandals or oxfords made of leather or other sweat-inducing materials and not have my feet make squishy noises as I walk. I want the possibility of wearing makeup without it leaking down my face. Instead I am forced to sport the same boring look, over and over again.

Today (like every other day), I was wiping beads of sweat off myself in the metro. I noticed that everyone was looking at me, their dry faces pitying my wet one. I then spotted a morbidly obese woman. She, too, was looking at me. She was aggressively stamping a beach towel all over her cheeks, neck and chest. She gave me a look of comiseration and acceptance, and slightly nodded her head – an “I understand,” perhaps. It was sweet and all but as far as I know, I’m not in the same category as this woman. I don’t have any health problems or addictions that would lead me to sweat like crazy. This sucks.

I’m sick of having to take ice cold showers as soon as I get in from my bike ride home; I’m sick of my hot face turning beet red; I’m sick of my ass sweating; I’m sick of my sweaty bangs morphing into a devil lock (well that one’s kind of cool, actually). I can’t wait for this heatwave to be over so I can go back to  being the attractive, moderately sweaty person I once was.



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Periods Are The Worst

Warning: this post is grosser than usual. Don’t read it.

I woke up at 7 this morning with unbelievable stomach pains. I was still a little drunk so my first reaction was, “Oh, beer shits.” I contemplated getting up but decided I was too lazy – I toughed it out and tried to go back to sleep. Then it dawned on me that the Jarry Poutine (for those unfamiliar, it’s a delicacy made of fries, thick gravy and cheese curds, topped with smoked meat) I had a mere few hours earlier was probably trying to sneak its way out. I almost got up but again chose to stay in bed. As my stomach ache worsened, I realized that the pain wasn’t caused by either of those things – I had my period. And I’d completely forgotten about it. I hadn’t strapped one of those nighttime pads (or ‘horse pads’ as my friend Bianca calls them) on before going to bed and I’d slept in my underwear. Before I could even consider the potential mess I’d made of my sheets, I freaked out and ran to the bathroom.

To my surprise, my undies were clean. There was no blood in the bowl, either. I thought this was incredibly weird but was like, “Whatever, I don’t have time to deal with this” (even though in retrospect I had ample time). I reached for a tampon and began sticking it in. For some reason, I had trouble. This annoyed me so I just stuck it in harder because like I said, there was no time. I then realized that I had possibly drunkenly forgotten to take my tampon out before going to bed. And that I was therefore wearing two super absorbency tampons. Holy shit. I nervously felt around for two strings but could only locate one. I guess that reassured me so I went back to bed.

But now I’m really scared. Did I lose a tampon in me? Is that even possible? I googled it (it seems to be a very popular question, by the way) and answers vary. Health sites seem to say that it can’t happen, whereas people on Yahoo Answers insist it can. I know the peeps on Yahoo aren’t remarkably intelligent (see: how is babby formed?) but I think I’m gonna have to side with them on this one for no reason whatsoever.

I’m hoping my vag will just push this bad boy out itself. I remember once I really had to take a shit at work. As many of you know, I don’t use public washrooms for anything other than peeing. Ever. That’s how bad I had to poop that day. My stomach was killing me; I was hunched over and sweating all over my desk. So I marched right to the last stall, ready to face my fear. Well, I ended up sitting there for a while. Nothing was coming out. So I pushed really, really hard. I was making a scrunched-up face and everything. Then I FINALLY passed something. It was a tiny Plop! sound but a plop nonetheless. I looked in the bowl and to my surprise, I’d pushed out a tampon, not a poop. I didn’t even know I was wearing a tampon! I actually started laughing all by myself. I can only imagine how insane I must have seemed to other employees in the bathroom.

So yeah, I guess I’ll try to handle this sitch on my own but I could also really use some advice. Am I freaking out over nothing? I honestly can’t remember if I’d taken my tampon out or not. I might have. Should I go see my gyno? I don’t feel like it.

Help. Love,


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Smart Girls Have More Fun

Some of you must think that I’ve spiraled into a deep depression that has changed and muted me. While this is true on some days, I assure you that I’m quite content and not suicidal most of the time. Yes, I’ve had an extremely hard few months (tough breakup! SAD). Yes, there are equally hard times ahead (moving out! STRESSFUL). However I’ve managed to stay grounded thanks to a perfect mix of friends, television, alcohol and of course, internet usage.

I’ve come to tell you all about a website that is restoring my faith in humanity. It’s had such a positive impact on me that I’m actually reconsidering my whole children-are-gross thing. In fact, I think I may now want a child – on condition that he or she try as hard as possible to be as cool as the girls featured on this site. Smart Girls at the Party is run by Amy Poehler (of SNL and assorted crappy movie fame – sorry, girl) and her two BFFs. Or at least one BFF, I’m not quite sure how the third girl fits in. Together they interview young girls about their beliefs, hobbies and aspirations. The kids are all so amazing. Ruby is a seven year-old feminist, Rachel is a 12 year-old robot builder (!) and Care Bears on Fire is a three-girl rock band that refuses to wear bikinis and be back-up dancers. Why wasn’t I this cool growing up? Why aren’t I this cool now?

Anyway, enjoy the website. I already plan on showing it to my little cousin. It’s more important than ever for kids (especially girls) to have positive role models in their lives – and it’s even better if these role models can subtly call bullshit on society’s double standards. I think Amy and her girls are doing that quite well.



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Objectification Or Art?

Tavi just wrote a blog post about Terry Richardson. If you’re unfamiliar with either, I’ll describe them quickly. Tavi is a young (I think she might be 13 or 14 now) fashion blogger. She attends runway shows, serves as somewhat of a muse for certain designers, has been featured in Vogue, etc. Unfortunately, she’s also often heavily criticized and hated on. This is because people are assholes. Now, I don’t particularly like her style (then again, I know nothing about fashion and no doubt looked about a million times worse in my teens) but I’d never say a bad thing about her. I like this kid. She’s half my age and writes twice as good as I do, she’s doing her own thing and she’s getting to meet her idols. She rules.

I feel I shouldn’t even have to explain who Terry Richardson is. If you don’t know him, you most likely know his work. He’s a very famous photographer who’s worked for oh, I don’t know, just about every magazine ever. Physically, he’s most recognizable for his big ass glasses, great band t-shirts, plaid shirts and thumbs-up pose. I personally think he’s extremely talented despite the fact that outside of his editorials, his work has a very consistent (if not predictable) aesthetic. Anyway, this post isn’t about whether he’s talented or not.

A few months ago a model accused Richardson of sexually exploiting the young girls who pose for him. Other models have corroborated this claim. A stylist allegedly quit after becoming fed up of watching Richardson abuse two teenage Eastern European models who didn’t speak English. In an interview with The Guardian, Richardson was quoted as saying, “I don’t think I’m a sex addict, but I do have issues. […] I was a shy kid, and now I’m this powerful guy with his boner, dominating all these girls.” Excuse me; ‘dominating’? What a douchebag. Of course, many big-name industry people immediately defended the highly influential photographer, saying that it’s the models’ own fault for sucking Uncle Terry’s dick. They weren’t forced to – they simply chose to.

This is some of what young Tavi had to say about the situation:

“The girl should never be put in the position in which she has to refuse. I mean, sure, she could just not say yes, but there’s another person to blame, and that would be the person who could just not pressure a girl into performing those kinds of acts.”

“And, let’s clarify: you don’t love women just because you have sex with them and like taking pictures of their ladyparts.”

“I can already see the comments reading, ‘You feminists are so uptight! Let a stranger manipulate you into doing weird things to him for once in your life, gosh!'”

My goodness. I’m not sure if I want this girl to be my best friend or my daughter or what. Could she be any more awesome? You can read the rest of her post here.

I included some [COMPLETELY NOT SAFE FOR WORK!] questionable photographs Richardson has either taken or gotten someone else to take after the cut. I guess you can form your own opinion about his work. Objectification? Art? Something for him to jerk off to on his days off?

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