Still too good for my former Euro Trash employers...

I quit my job on Sunday. Yep, no more corporate suits, nose-jobbed trophy wives, under-age dealer groupies (and their dealers, of course), shitty 'house' DJs, Quebecois celebrities, stripey-shirted douche bags, Arabian oil lords, seedy-yet-entertaining strip-club owners, or ignorant and rich little princesses who ask for no dressing (instead, salt and lemons) on their garden salads.

Well, at least for four months. Fear not, loyal readers, I will be a bar star once again and live to tell the many humorous tales.

So I asked my boss why I wasn't awarded the schedule I deserve. Why, oh why, may I not be the one privileged enough to serve vodka-Red-Bulls at a high volume to unworthy yet cash-bearing patrons?

"Well, you're not really enthusiastic enough. Sometimes you don't look like you're happy to be here." (this is code for: "You don't party here on your days off with us, and you don't grab our asses as much as we grab yours, and well, that is what enthusiasm means to us.")

Working for these boys isn't a job; it's a lifestyle.

Fuck that shit. I've got higher aspirations, like being a barmaid at some other shitty, $9 Heineken bar. But in the mean time, allow me to celebrate with the money I will no longer be earning! YAY!!!!!

You can send donations (food stamps, cash, drugs, clothing, non-perishables) to my unemployed ass at my mom's house (leave a comment and I'll send you her address).

I think I'm a masochist

I've been sitting for 30 hours. Or more. I sit, I write, I stumble, I blog, I write of High Stalinism...

In the library, my choice spot to study is in front of the travel books. I sit, I type, and I stare at the plethora of Lonely Planets, knowing that I will not leave this library, never mind city, for at least another 30 hours.

Why do I torture myself so?

McGill can eat my gut rot

I'd say that I drink about seven cups of coffee per paper-writing day.
Today, I'm at three cups. But it's only 2:30. I've eaten a handful of almonds (salted!) and some jam with porridge.

Anyway, I took this test.


Created by OnePlusYou

I didn't want to try too hard, you know, because then I'd be a try-hard. According to the test, I am "productive" and "jittery."

Again, if anyone has a little brother with ADD, CALL ME. Facebook me. Email me. Blog me. Text me. Smoke signal me. Sign me. You will be compensated for your time, services and kindness.

I need study drugs

This is getting out of hand.
The paint on these walls here is so abrasive that I'm getting an abdominal work out trying to prevent myself from vomiting over my Stalinist Cinema notes.



If anyone knows a guy who knows a guy who can score me drugs that are really for pre-pubescent boys who can't sit still, let me know. You will remain anonymous and your generosity will be greatly appreciated.

Crying in public sucks

Last night I had to withstand a short, creepy man yelling at me in broken English about how he was "The KING" for two hours, and about how he was "a photographer," and towards the end of our chat, informed me that he had taken "over one hundred pictures" of me since he had sat down to drink his four glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
Why?
So I can be even more violated during the day by McGill University.
I smile and play stupid barmaid psychiatry games all through the night so that I can pay to be treated like shit by some faceless institution that takes my dirty money, tells me to pick a number and wait so that I can be enlightened as to why I am not good enough to make the grade or the tuition payment deadline, so that I can be informed that my essays are not following closely enough to the the requirements of the assignment, and that my poor attendance has resulted in a dock of 10% on my final mark.
I'm sorry I wasn't in my conferences last week; I was busy giving blow jobs to your accounting secretary whilst taking it up the ass from the dean of Arts, all so that I can come back for round 2 next Wednesday afternoon.
McGill really is the school that just keeps on giving.

Take my dirty money you fucking fucks; it's the least that you deserve.