School’s Out Celebration

I had my last test on Friday! I would have been done about a week and a half sooner but I accidentally forgot to go to a final. WHO DOES THAT?! I was so, so embarrassed. This particular exam was worth 60 per cent of my final grade. I’ve never failed anything in my life so there was no way I’d accept an F on my transcript. Luckily the teacher let me take the test at a later date with a slight penalty. Whatever, as long as I’m not failing.

I worked really hard this semester so despite my current heartache and emotional anguish, I decided to tear my butt off the couch and go out and celebrate. I met up with my friend Phil and watched the third period of the Habs game at Foufs. She got me Godiva chocolates! So good. Her friend joined us and we headed to Cafe Cleopatra’s 35 year anniversary party. If you’re a Montrealer who’s somehow unfamiliar with Cafe Cleo’s current predicament, allow me to fill you in – in an effort to ‘revitalize’ the Lower Main, the city is backing a plan to build Hydro Quebec offices and chic cafes and shops along the sketchy part of St. Laurent Boulevard. All businesses have given in to the pressure and have either shut down or relocated (even the famed Montreal Pool Room moved), except Cafe Cleo. Sadly, the strip club (bar, venue, whatever you wanna call it) is now facing potential expropriation. In some ways, the party acted as a benefit show. Even Johnny Zoumboulakis, the owner, came out during a Dead Dolls number and gave a little speech to the crowd. He’s awesome.

Though there were many notable acts, I was most stoked on the drag queens. I’d never gone to a drag show before. It was really fun. They were all beautiful (I was jealous of more than one pair of sweet legs), talented and hilarious. One of the hosts kept uncomfortably wiggling around and saying, “Sorry, I had to get it out of my ass.” It was amazing. There was party favors, too! Funny glasses, pointy hats, crowns and noisemakers. I played with the glasses all night. It doesn’t take much to please me. My favorite number was a rendition of Liza Minnelli on coke. I was actually supposed to go to Rockette after the show but Liza threw a big bag of cocaine (er, baby powder) all over me and I was forced to head home.

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I Wrote Something

I appear to have neglected this blog again but for once, it’s not because I was too lazy to update. I’ll have you know that finals are kicking my ass hard right now but more importantly, I’ve been busy writing for an ACTUAL PUBLICATION. That’s right. Though by ‘actual publication’ I mean the school paper. One of the school papers. Regardless, I’m quite proud of myself.

You see, ever since I began studying journalism, my peers and teachers have repeatedly approached me and gushed, “Melissa, your writing is fantastic! You simply must write for the school paper!” OK, maybe that never happened. But even if it had, I was a jerk back then and would have said no.

Anyway, my friend Adam did some paintings for a bar on St-Laurent and so I decided to interview him about it. You can check out Adam’s previous work here and read my article here (or pick a copy up at Concordia). Let it be known that I am in no way responsible for that cheesy headline – the editor, who is coincidentally also named Adam and also quite awesome, is.


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Murphy’s Law

As if my life weren’t shitty enough, I now have a cyst the size of a golf ball hidden in my upper thigh, near where it connects to my vagina. It’s not really visible so I’m not even sure how long I’ve had it – if it wasn’t for the seam of my new jeans rubbing against it, I wouldn’t even have noticed it. I never got a cyst before but I made like a million people touch it and everyone’s confirming that that’s what it is. It kind of feels like a Super Ball, all bouncy and rubbery. It’s freaking me out.

Thanks to Wikipedia, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s either a dermoid cyst (which I read as DEMONOID cyst) or a sebaceous cyst. The dermoid variety can contain anything from long ass strands of hair to nails, eyes and even teeth. I’ve been told that a character in My Big Fat Greek Wedding had a cyst with teeth but I never watched that movie because I have good taste (sorry, Nicole). Now I’m thinking up all these ridiculous scenarios in which the cyst is planning on chewing its way out of my thigh, or in which it’s staring at my vagina. It has a mind of its own, you guys! The sebaceous cyst is a little more tame, containing not much more than sebum, an oily substance.

In either case, I’m probably going to have to have this bad boy surgically removed. Before I go to the doctor’s, my mom instructed me to try to get rid of it on my own, by dipping a cloth in hot water and bleach and applying it to the cyst. She told me that the water has to be super hot and that I have to press on the cyst really hard for about fifteen minutes, to melt it or something. Well, I ended up using water so hot that I burned the entire area and pressing so hard that I bruised myself. Now it hurts like hell when I walk. FML.

My aunt told me that I should dip white bread in hot milk and apply it to the cyst. Apparently that will make it burst and whatever it contains will rise up out of me. It’s like when you put a bowl of milk to someone’s ass and worms come out. Or maybe it isn’t like that at all? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Here’s what the inside of a demonoid cyst looks like. Ew!



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Fetal Homicide

I can’t believe I missed this! I’m catching up on my Savage Love podast listening (thanks again, Dee) and apparently, a bill was recently passed in Utah that would make it illegal for a woman to miscarry. The “reckless act” that leads to the miscarriage (being a victim of domestic violence, for example) could be considered criminal homicide and the woman in question could face life in prison. This is beyond insane. One in four women have miscarriages! And like Dan (the host) said, how is Utah going to keep track of pregnant women? Compulsory tests? The uterus police? Apparently, this all stems from a case in which a 17 year old girl paid someone $150 to beat her until she lost her baby. I suppose the first solution Utah thought of would be to criminalize all such acts (though really, how often does this happen?) but wouldn’t it have been easier to, oh, I don’t know, MAKE LEGAL ABORTIONS MORE ACCESSIBLE? Also, Dan went on to explain that a pregnant woman in Iowa fell down the stairs and found herself jailed for two days for “suspected feticide”. K, I really hate the world now. Like even more than before. Thankfully, I doubt the Utah law will be approved (it’s currently awaiting the governor’s signature), but just the very idea of people with authority backing it up is frightening. Remind me never to move to the Mormon State. Or Iowa. Not that I would ever do that, but you know.

Read more here.


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Love Me, Love My Doll

I remember watching Love Me, Love My Doll around this time last year when I interned at Vice. I’m not sure why I was told to watch it, but I remember it being interesting and I randomly felt the urge to watch it again. It’s a documentary about men who share their lives with Real Dolls, which are life-sized dolls that look and feel similar to actual women. Everything about them is customizable, including cup size and pubic hair. They cost several thousands of dollars. They’re anatomically correct in the way that no doubt matters most – they have vaginas. That you can fuck. They’re sex dolls, basically. But to the owners featured in this movie, they’re more than that – they’re companions who are often treated with the utmost love and care. A strange yet seemingly genuine emotional bond ties these men to their dolls, kind of like the one depicted in Lars and the Real Girl, although, big surprise, these men are no Ryan Gosling.

Many of them believe they are incapable of meeting human women (for whatever reason, be it their looks or their social awkwardness) and have settled for synthetic versions. As crazy as that seems, this might seem a little crazier – I think I understand these men. I refuse to judge them. Yes, it’s bizarre to watch them shop for skimpy outfits for their dolls, it’s off-putting to view them delicately apply makeup to inanimate eyelids and lips and it’s certainly uncommon to see a grown man admiringly looking into a doll’s eyes and whispering, “I love you.” You will see all that and more in this movie. It’s kind of fascinating.

This is the closest thing to ‘love’ these men have ever experienced. It’s not socially acceptable, but somehow, it’s real. Some of the men realize that a doll could never provide the companionship and affection that a real woman could; others simply don’t care. They communicate with their dolls in their own way and appear to believe it to be reciprocal. They seem to realize that deep down, this is totally weird – but they’re still happy. And more importantly, they aren’t as lonely. One could probably argue that for some, spending a lifetime alone may be more psychologically damaging than having a relationship with a doll that looks exactly like a woman (well, a woman with a perfect, unattainable body).

Here’s a screen grab of a doll’s vagina. It’s OK, I was curious too.


P.S. If I didn’t embed the video properly, which is possible because I’m an idiot, click here. It really is interesting.


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How To Be Happy

You may have noticed that I haven’t posted in a short while (what’s new?), but that is because I’m going through a period of extreme sadness. I am no longer the happy-go-lucky Mel you know and no doubt love – instead, I hate the world and everyone in it about ten times more than usual. This isn’t healthy. To combat this inner sadness, I’ve composed a list of things to do when feeling down. If you follow all these points, I promise you total happiness. OK, that’s a bit of a stretch but at least you won’t want to kill yourself. I hope.

I know the last thing you want to do is search through your pile of dirty clothes to find the t-shirt that stinks the least. I know that when you’re sad, even showering is a huge pain in the ass. But listen, you need to be at least somewhat clean-looking when you finally present yourself to the outside world. Now, once you’re out you don’t need to do anything specific – go buy weird things in Chinatown, read subtitles during a foreign film, watch little kids skateboard, whatever. The point here is that you need to distract your brain from whatever is bringing you down. Odds are that if you stay home, you will not only think about the root of your sadness – you’ll obsess over it. Kind of like when that blond girl obsessed over Beyonce’s man in that movie. I think it was called Obsession.

Whatever, if you don’t feel like leaving the house, don’t leave the house (even though you probably should). If you feel like eating half of your mother’s $30 birthday cake and crying all over it and eating your tears, then do it (what? I didn’t do that). This is pretty much the only time that substituting every meal with junk food is excusable, so live it up. I’m currently wearing track pants (yes, TRACK PANTS) that I haven’t washed in two weeks and that I don’t plan on washing, um, ever again. You’re also entitled to give your friends attitude and to demand compliments from them. Don’t be shy, flattery is easily one of the best ways to get over your sadness. Someone told me they liked my hair today and I swear time actually stopped for three to four minutes.

Oh God, this is not something I’d actually do but I’ll include it anyway. Working out releases endorphins, endorphins make you happy, blah blah blah. They’re also released when you orgasm, by the way, so maybe you should just masturbate furiously or have sex a lot instead, though I fear that doing either of those things while potentially sobbing may be a teensy bit awkward. Maria Donna asked me to try yoga this week and I think I might actually take her up on it. I’ll report back if I find the strength to tear my butt off the couch.

Hey, I’m doing that right now! I’m not sure if I’d call it therapeutic but it got me to stop crying. Writing is kind of the thing I’m best at (and yet I pretty much suck — FRIENDS, COMPLIMENT ME) but you can also doodle or dance or sling some paint around, Jackson Pollock style. That reminds me, the sex addicts on Celebrity Rehab (I watch all these crappy TV shows if you haven’t noticed) used throwing shit around as therapy – paint, eggs, dishes, vases and bricks! OK, not bricks. Don’t throw those.

I am 100 per cent all about watching cat videos on Youtube. Maru is by far my favorite – check out the channel here. Another thing that manages to cheer me up is LOLcats (duh). Kids are hilarious too (“Wanna eat ’em?” “OMNOMNOM”). Also, a friend showed me a video of a mantis eating a dragonfly and now I’m really into mantis videos. Watch this snake get owned. And this mouse. And this wasp (weird music alert). Amazing. This is going to sound really geeky but I LOVE THE INTERNET.

This probably doesn’t work for everyone but it definitely works for me. I should mention that I’m not about getting tattoos that “mean something” (or whatever bullshit); I’m about getting tattoos that “look good”. Or that I think look good, anyway. If I didn’t spend all of the little money I have on food, I’d probably have a sleeve by now. I’m telling you, tattoos are instant happiness. Unless they turn out ugly. Then you might be even more depressed. Seriously – that shit is for life.

My only other advice is to cry. I know, it’s boring and you think it makes you look pathetic, but you need to let it all out. Unfortunately, I appear to have some sort of never-ending supply of tears so I try to hold it in as much as possible. Plus, tears drying on my cheeks gives me pimples. I think I’m allergic to them.

There are also a bunch of things that you should AVOID doing while feeling sad. These include causing self-harm, indulging in drugs (it can go either way, I guess, but I’d probably end up bad tripping – do kids still use that term, “bad tripping”? I’m not a drug person) and writing poetry. DO NOT DO THESE THINGS. There’s no reason for the poetry one; I’m just not a fan.



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I Eat A Lot – So What?

My aunt came over on Saturday and made a comment about my weight, saying I was skinny. My mother immediately countered with “Are you crazy? Melissa’s not skinny.” I’m not? I don’t think I’m skinny-skinny but I always assumed I was, I don’t know, average-skinny. I asked my boyfriend if he thought I was skinny later on and his exact words were, “Well, you gained weight.” WHAT? Take note, boyfriends everywhere, that is not an acceptable answer. Something satisfactory would would have been, “You’ve never looked better.” I don’t care if you feel we’re at the stage in our relationship where we can be truly honest with each other – we’re not and we never will be. That stage doesn’t exist. Sometimes you have to lie (or at least sugarcoat things or change subjects). You cannot poke fun at things we have genuine issues with, especially if you plan on getting laid ever again. I’m actually pretty comfortable with my weight, but I don’t need you to tell me if I gained any. Did you ever think that maybe I REALIZE I GAINED WEIGHT? That maybe I ONLY HAVE ONE PAIR OF JEANS THAT FITS? That maybe YOU’RE BEING ANNOYING?

I guess I let his answer get to me because I woke up thinking about my flab this morning. Again, I don’t think I’m fat and I’m generally quite happy with how I look, but I make some bad food-related choices. I eat chips and chocolate together (I like the saltiness and the sweetness) as a snack, I’ve had curly fries for breakfast and I honestly love McDonald’s. I’m disgusting. Just yesterday I went to that rice pudding place near Concordia (aka heaven) and I had $12 worth of rice pudding. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot but think about it. Have you any idea how much rice pudding you can get for $12? A LOT. And although my stomach hurt quite a bit after, I didn’t even feel guilty that I ate so much. I felt guilty that I spent $12. I really needed at $12.

Maybe it’s time for me to become health-conscious before I bust out of yet another pair of jeans. Maybe I’ll do yoga. Maybe I’ll work out. Or maybe everyone will just have to accept me for the gross person that I am (let me live my life!).


(Edit: I think this post made me sound a teensy bit worse than I actually am. It’s not like I eat junk food all the time. And I may not go to the gym, but I walk just about everywhere. How can I describe my eating habits? Well, put it this way – some people turn to recreational drug use as a release from their daily responsibilities; I turn to pizza parties.)


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