Dancing In My Kitchen

It’s 11:30 AM in the morning. The morning and the “I should probably actually doing something right now” period of the day are beginning to blur together.

Actually, it’s 1:31 in the afternoon, and I’m writing a blog post. Tomorrow I’m leaving for Toronto so I guess today is packing day. I’ve decided to write down everything I’m going to do in the next 11 days and blog it.

Saturday

11:00 AM: I get out of bed. I love Saturday mornings.

11:30 PM: I delete some music off my iPod so I can add a movie. I can’t bring myself to delete some songs even though they suck simply because they were playing when something good happened.

12:30 PM: Lunch. I’m making a grilled cheese sandwich on the stove when Best Coast comes on the radio. I unashamedly lose myself a little and dance. My dog cocks it’s head to the side and gives me a look.

1:00 PM: Time to pack. I check twice that I’ve included my laser kitty t-shirt.

1:30 PM: I feel a sudden need to write down the mundane events of my day so far, and I begin to write this post. I then realize that nothing interesting has happened to me all day, and I return to packing.

2:30 PM: I make myself another grilled cheese and put the radio back on, hoping for more Best Coast: instead, Live 88.5 is playing John Mayer. My universe is dead.

3:00 PM: Sleep, music, etc. Nothing worth writing about.

4:00 PM: My mother and little brother leave for South Keys to buy him an outfit for the theatre. My father and I decide to go for Thai. Pad Thai is one of the greatest dishes ever created and one I rarely have due to my brother’s life-threatening allergy. I think he may be faking the allergy as part of an overall effort to ruin my life, or maybe I’m just crazy. Actually, I’m probably crazy. But whatever, anyone interesting is at least a little bit insane.

4:30 PM: I sit in the Thai place with my head leaned slightly on to the wall while my father pays. I’m thinking about this conversation my friend Zooey and I had the previous day, about how we really want to do something with our lives but ultimately get nowhere. It’s kind of funny how the people who know exactly what they want to do with their lives are the ones who are lost. At least this blog makes me feel like I’m not completely worthless.

6:30 PM: We drive my mum and brother home after dinner, and when we get home my bro shows me his new clothes: my mum bought him an old-time gangster outfit. I already feel threatened by him, now I’m half-expecting him to be carrying a double-barrel shotgun.

7:00 PM: I call my grandma up to say hi. She’s a huge Matt Damon fan, so I tell her about The Adjustment Bureau (a movie with Matt Damon where whoever’s wearing a fedora has complete power over the universe. It’s awesome). After I hang up, I find myself with nothing to do, so I decide to watch High Fidelity on DVD. I really have no better way to spend my time.

9:30 PM: The movie is over. I figure I’ll stay up for SNL ’cause Zach Galifianakis is hosting, so I have an hour and a half to kill. Overcome by how tired I am from my day of absolutely nothing, I take a nap on the couch.

Life is kind of fantastic.

Rebellion

This post is for my grandfather.

I have this recurring dream of being lost at sea. I’m lying in a raft, there’s a lovely breeze, and I’m completely terrified. But it isn’t the fact that I’m lying in a raft in the middle of a vast body of water that’s terrifying: it’s that I have no idea where the hell I am.

And then I wake up. I’ll slip on a t-shirt and jeans, put on a hoodie, and get on with my life. And then later I’ll write about it.

It wasn’t until two weeks ago that I decided I might want something different. Something slightly more extraordinary. It was when I attempted to stand up to my friend Kade for messing with me. I then fell over, attempted to get a drink of water and get back up, but instead choked up water on myself.

Also, a couple of months ago my grandfather told me “you remind me of the kid from Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist, which me made me think two completely different things: a) why was my grandfather watching Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist and b) holy crap, I’m Michael Cera.

The time had come to reinvent myself as a rebel. I would become known as the dangerous one. The one who occasionally left two buttons undone instead of one on their shirt and made nothing of it. The one who occasionally kicked over a chair. The one who nobody messed with.

The first step, I decided, was either to commit arson or ask one of my cooler friends how to be cool. I chose the second.

Me: KADE! Tell me how to be cool!

Kade:  Why?

Me: I’m writing a blog post about trying to be a rebel.

Kade: Being cool and being a rebel are two different things… so do you want to be cool? Or do you want to be a rebel?

Me: Don’t you need to be cool to be a rebel?

(I then slipped away for five minutes to buy milk and Snapple from the corner store and when I returned she’d went offline, and left the words “you’re so uneducated”).

I was beginning to think Kade was right. The most rebellious I’d managed to be in weeks was randomly yelling “I’M SACHA KINGSTON-WAYNE, DAMMIT!” in the middle of the street (which got me some pretty nasty looks from an older woman passing by and her chihuahua).

Anyway, I think I’m done with being a rebel for now. I think there needs to be people like me. Jesse Eisenberg, Michael Cera, and Mark Zuckerberg have done alright for themselves, haven’t they?

I’m going to post this, put my Scissor Sisters CD back on, and go eat dinner, but I’d just like to say this first: I know my place in the universe, and I’m actually kind of happy with it, even if it is completely, and awesomely, lame.

The End of The World

This post is for the idiots who made the film 2012 (except for John Cusack, I forgive him) for making me obsessed with the end of the world.

It’s a bit weird having an epiphany while trying aimlessly to write a story about the end of the world for school. This is my writing process: I’ll write one sentence (probably not even a very good one), get bored, put on music to solve my boredom, and then get distracted by something shiny. So I don’t often have actual moments of inspiration while writing.

This is what I realized today while writing: if I knew the world was going to end in a few hours, I would probably do the exact same thing I did today (do something pointless with people I like). I wouldn’t throw a huge party. I wouldn’t try to stop it all in a moment of delusion. I’d just live. We don’t look back and remember parties, or even the more important events of our lives (I have no knowledge of New Year 2009).

You remember the moments. The lovely little things that make life worth living. If it’s going to take the end of the world for us to realize this, bring it on.

My Surprisingly Violent Past

This post is for anyone who’s never been in a fight (a punchy one, not a screamy emotional one – yes, I’m aware punchy isn’t a word, and screamy probably isn’t either- BUT THEY SHOULD BE).

It’s my second post on the sight and I’m already running out of stuff to talk about (I can be quite boring sometimes). So I’m going to talk about my childhood.

I was actually in a fight once. You may be surprised by this because at my most violent I’m either trying to imitate a West Side Story fight or watching Scott Pilgrim VS The World.

But I was technically in a fight once- at the tender age of six.

I wasn’t very big at the age of six. In fact, the best mode of self defense for me probably would have been hiding, but I decided not to take that route when I saw two other boys who were both noticeably bigger than me starting to engage in combat (AKA jumping on top of each other).

The previous morning I had watched a TVO Kids special on how singing can change the world and end all conflict (damn them for trying to teach lessons to children). I knew there was only one option. I walked up to the two and prepared myself, standing in between them.

And then I sang “Sing Out” by Cat Stevens. Or maybe it was This Land is Your Land. Whatever. Anyway, I had the crap beaten out of me.

So maybe I’m not the right person to advise you about fighting, but I’m going to go ahead anyway.

I’m not sure if pulling punches is the right solution when a fight occurs. I’m not sure if running away is either. Just don’t sing Cat Stevens. You’ll regret it.

Why People Don’t Suck

This post is for everyone who wanted me to start this blog.

I should probably actually write something here, and I’m not sure what to write about, so I should probably write about what’s on my mind right now. So I’m going to write about how people don’t suck.

Here’s something we all need to deal with: Everyone is a little bit bad and a little bit good. Everyone knows that no one is perfect. But no one is entirely heartless. Sure, there are people, many people actually, who are mostly made of suck, and make the world suck more. But they can’t be entirely made of suck.

To see if anyone was actually interested in checking out this blog before I started it, I asked people to like my FB status if they wanted me to start this, and some people did. A lot of people, actually. A few of them I didn’t even know that well. Even though it was only a click that it took to tell me to start this, I don’t think they liked it for that reason. I think it was because because they could very easily do something nice so they did, and that’s really something.

So yeah, we all suck a little bit. And we’re all at least a little bit awesome. But I think it’s what we do with that suck and that awesome that actually defines who you are. So thanks for reading this, random person. Thank you for doing something nice for me.

I think that’s all I have to say right now. I’m sure I’ll have something else to say soon. I hope it isn’t completely stupid…