Ode to a rim

Rolling up the rim to win,
sore fingers building callouses.
Greed and gluttony my top sins;
But I can't stop the losses.

Damn you, coffee cup!
When's my turn to win?
Three words choke me up:
"Please Play Again."

Who sets the odds to win this game?
Has Vegas reached this low?
One in nine a shameful claim
as I'm now 12 and 0.

I won! I won!...a lousy doughnut.
I think I'll take a pass.
Take this flaccid crueller, Tim's
and stick it up your ass.

A wee character study

In a mixture of boredom and lack of proper sleep, I found myself creating word doodles beside my regular old graphic doodles at last week's convention. My goal was to create a mental image that was crisp, succint and evocative. This is in no way related to anything or anyone in my life. It's more of a character study.

See, I've come to realize that one of my biggest issues with writing is the pressure I put on myself to create something complete, as though it could emerge, fully-formed from my mind (nice little classical mythology reference in there for you. You're welcome.) Of course, having fully-formed anything is a challenge, let alone a fully-formed masterpiece of writing. So I'm taking it upon myself to cobble together bits and pieces of writing as they come to me, compile them, and save them for future dates when they can be assembled to make my very own literary Frankenstein.

There is no real setting or plot development. This is a descriptive paragraph. We're just assuming in medias res and hoping for the best. oh, and one more thing before I begin: this is a first for me, this sharing of creative writing talents. I've never displayed my poetry or shared any short stories. Ever. My shared writing is strictly non-fiction and usually critiques, analyses or incorporates secondary research or another's writing. So from nothing, here is something. My brain baby--ugly, swollen and bleating its way into the world.

I won't say enjoy, as you aren't required to. In fact, if you don't enjoy it, please feel free to tell me. Your role is to witness. To read and give meaning to the words by interpolating them in your own mind. Thanks in advance.

Ew.

With one quick glance it is apparent that his douche nozzle is turned on full blast. The hose sprays a fine mist of arrogant machismo that is carried, weightless, and deposited in small droplets on unsuspecting bystanders. Covered in a film of creepy discomfort, they shiver--trying to shake off the offending particles. Cloying, sticky particles. Spicy, but not alluring or exotic. Spice that stings the nostrils and forces tongues to the roofs of mouths in an effort to plug the stench from entering their throats. Not dirty--in fact, quite the opposite. Clean, but not soapy clean. Clean and overly perfumed, as if the various concoctions on a drugstore shelf have found their way into a horrible, stagnant witch's brew. The lotions and creams have left his skin gleaming with an oily slick. Their foul odor leads passers-by to offer a wide berth, their actions completely missed by the narcissist at its centre. Missing among his myriad potions, apparently, is an astringent, for underneath his skin's superficial glow are thousands of misshapen craters, dutifully spackled in an attempt to camouflage the unhealthy texture of his cheekbones. The monochromatic finish his facepaint supplies creeps from his throat up to his receding hairline. Even the faint shadow of artful stubble on his chin betrays blunt, foundation-smeared follicles. The other hairs on his head stand at attention, resistant to gale-force winds thanks to the liberal application of a product best described as the green mucus coughed up by a particularly phlegmy consumptive. His grin is a self-satisfied sneer, as if, aware of his grotesquerie, he is daring those around him to say something about his offensiveness.

As he stands regarding the world with dumb cruelty, he sees me standing awkwardly several paces away. Shit. There's no getting out of this now. This is the last, I repeat last, time I allow myself to be fixed up by an Internet dating service. At the very least, I'm getting my money back. And if this dickbag even thinks about invading my personal space, he's getting a faceful of half-inch gel nails. I quickly curse myself for spending twenty bucks on getting my nails done for this asshole.

He approaches. A wave of nausea flips my guts, and I bite my lip to contain it.

"Hey. Drink?"

"Please."

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Bebe Squirrel Monkey

Baby squirrel monkey at the Edmonton Zoo!


So, our zoo's pretty sad and lame. There's been a lot more press recently about the state of Lucy, our much-troubled and ballyhooed elephant, than on anything good happening there. It's not a great zoo, but there are some decent exhibits available. The monkeys are particularly nice. And the squirrel monkeys are the cutest. See?

Click here to read the story at the Edmonton Journal.

It's the simple things that make life worth living

It's been a hard week, and it's only going to get harder, with our big work convention coming up on the 15th and looming overtime for the weekend. With that, it's important to make time for little things that make me smile.

Thank god(s) for College Humour. And yes, just for the record, I will be going home and attempting this on my cat. Once I go to the dollar store and purchase some balloons, of course.

Blogging 101

I'm nearing the end of my PR diploma program, and one of the last classes I need to graduate is advanced digital publishing, which includes such fun fare as PhotoShop and InDesign. My instructor is a particularly virulent form of grumpy old man mixed with a dash of hard ass, which means that despite most students in my evening class having full-time jobs on top of classes, we're expected to publish (write, edit and design) a full magazine and create our own blog. 

To that end, we've had to read an insightful book about blog publishing for businesses, which, while similar to what I do here, obviously has different goals, like building a brand and marketing products. Though I've ben doing this for a few years now there are still things the book taught me, and other things I knew already but have shrugged off. 

Among the top items is that good blogs, once begun, must be updated regularly. The minimum is 2-3 times a week, but optimum blogging (if you want to actually make a name for yourself as a blogger) is to write something interesting, pertinent and link-worthy 2-3 times a DAY. I'm all for building my little blog past the "peek into the diary of Ms. Fitz this week and see what neurosis she's adopted today", but, honestly, I just can't muster the effort. 

To get the creative juices aflowin', writers are instructed, the best things to do are 1) read and 2) write. Just do it. Like Nike, only way less athletically able or inclined. But damn, does my brain feel exhausted after a day of writing at work, only to come home and dedicate 1-2 hours (the suggested time allotted to a daily blog update) to writing blather. Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit for what I write, but I figure that the miscellaneous collection of thoughts gives me one of two options to really be a success: narrow my scope to focus on one particular field of interest or become a much better, more engaging writer than I am today. Self-indulgence is part of the genesis of blogs online, but to succeed, a blogger needs an audience. And while I like to share things that I hope people will smirk at or at least get 30 seconds of enjoyment out of, if it doesn't interest me, I'm probably not going to be motivated enough to talk about it. I wish I had a passion. Perhaps if I were passionate about anything (other than the sound of my own voice or the clickity-clacking of my fingers putting out my own words) the writing would be easier.

Or I could continue writing what I know. Unfortunately for you, dear follower, that means expounding the virtues of cereal for dinner or 46 ways to entertain your cat instead of watching TV (as you're too cheap for cable). Maybe an expose on the contents of my fridge? Though if I haven't mustered the energy to toss the fuzzy green colony that was once a block of cheddar, I probably won't muster the energy to become the next HuffPo. (One side benefit, were I to become the next HuffPo, is that I would promise to never, ever, give Jenny McCarthy her own column.)

But hey! The Oscars are on! 

Cheers.