A mentally-ill/super-high man followed my sister and her boyfriend home and was trying to get inside our house. They couldn't even get in because everytime they attempted to do so, he'd be a step behind them, pushing his way in.

My imagination is normally nonfunctional, but it would get hyperactive when it comes to conjuring gruesome scenarios. Too much CSI and crime books can do that to a person. I'm still shaking with fear. And anger. Because nine minutes after Jan called the cops, the boys in blue were still noticeably absent. I knew it was nine minutes because I called the station again and was rudely reminded of the fact. Hatefully, I felt like how I usually feel when I'm in expensive salons - intimidated and apologetic because I'm clearly ignorant of how things are supposed to be done. The myriad of unpleasant things that could happen in nine minutes did cross my mind, but I had faith in the good men of the service. After all, my future brother-in-law is one of them and he's pretty reliable.

FORTY-FIVE minutes later, I'm still hovering beside the front door with a can of suede protector (Don't judge, the can says it's poisonous. I figured I'd just shoot for the eyes and the mouth.) and a wine bottle, ready to be smashed on crazy person's head and be stabbed into his stomach. When I called the police again, the lady panicked when she realized that my sister and my boyfriend were still outside and the fucking crazy person was still trying to get in.

Now there's a cop in the living room, getting statements from Jan and Kris. A good hour and a half after Jan gave them the first call.

What have I learned from tonight's episode?

a) Gone are the days of utmost faith in the Toronto Police. Suck on your doughnuts, I'm through with you.

b) Still, that didn't stop me from watching them while they interrogated and handcuffed crazy man. Lesson #2: Cop shows are pretty realistic when it comes to these scenes. Good job, TV people. You still have my utmost faith.

c) The fact that I actually planned on spraying and stabbing a person to death without hesitation scares the hell out of me. When cornered, humans become vicious, blood-thirsty beasts. It's a bit unsettling to know that I am no exception to this fact.

d) I should probably take up a sport. Hockey, maybe. Or baseball. Pucks, sticks, and bats are handy things to have around the house.

Behold, the future of the world.

...

And as this incident causes us to pause and reflect on a multitude of things (The state of humanity nowadays, for one. Or how the females of the species yet again prove themselves to be the more fearsome sex.), let me just point out a fact that may be overlooked once we start pondering on the intricacies of modern parenting:

"Police seized a steak knife with a broken handle, steel handcuffs, duct tape, electrical and transparent tape, ribbons and the paperweight..."

Steel handcuffs.

Lock those bedside drawers, people. Lock those bedside drawers.

i hope this wasn't an april fool's prank.

This MTV Canada show I was half-watching earlier tonight said NKOTB and 90210 are coming back.

In case you didn't reach puberty during the late 80s and early 90s, Jason Priestley, Joe McIntyre, and Jordan Knight (and to a lesser extent, the remaining male band and cast members) were every girl's objects of affection. I, along with the rest of the female tween population of that time (Only we weren't called that. Those days, SM malls declared us to be "pre-teens". Sounds so archaic now.) slept with dreams of these, uh, dreamboats dancing in our heads.

Love, then, meant sweet notes on perfumed stationery, holding hands while waiting for ice cream, pecks on the cheek, and having songs written about and for you, preferably with words like "heart" and "forever" and perhaps best of all, "lollipop" (I do not like Googling as much as I think, so bonus points for you if you find this song I'm thinking about) in them. Love meant Joe pleading with you to please don't go, and Brandon rescuing you from his bitchy, social-climbing twin sister. It did NOT mean watching Tommy Lee bang his drums, followed by you plotting your underthings' trajectory toward him while shivering with revulsion (mostly directed to yourself) and need.

You see why it's so important that I get to see NKOTB and those 90210-ers back doing their thing? Forget about reclaiming lost youth and all that. Me, i just want to avoid getting hepatitis-C.

for rodeline

who asked why i haven't been writing.

i told her i was too lazy. which wasn't a lie.

but the real reason is because old dogs cannot learn new tricks, and i have never written anything my whole life.

i don't write.

she does. he does.

every now and then, i find myself confronted with things and words and thoughts and people so... luminous and entrancing that i don't feel like doing anything else but sit and admire and enjoy.

but don't worry, i always recover and go back to the smut and inanities and mindless drivel that define my existence (and everybody else in my small, ultimately disappointing world. except for you, rods. because you're an angel and above these things.).

like i said, you can't teach an old bitch new tricks.

From "Ten Things I Hate About You":

I hate the way you talk to me.
And the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car.
I hate it when you stare.

I hate your big dumb combat boots.
And the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick --
It even makes me rhyme.

I hate the way you're always right.
I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh --
Even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it when you're not around.
And the fact that you didn't call.
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you;
Not even close;
Not even a little bit;
Not even at all.
...

I have a feeling it's probably one of the movies he would've rather forgotten that he made, but "Ten Things I Hate About You" is still one of my best-loved movies of all time.

Ah, Heath Ledger. Hearing about these things always makes me sad.

oh, and world peace, please.

I stopped writing Santa a long time ago partly because I always knew that he didn't really exist (I was a parenting dream when I was a kid. I didn't have to be weaned away from bottles to begin with. On my first day of school, not only did I NOT cry, I even told my mom to go home and just pick me up at lunchtime. And, best of all, my parents didn't have to twist their brains trying to find the best way to explain the truth about things like tooth fairies or where babies come from. Birds and bees and storks? Pleeease, spare me. I'm trying to remember exactly when and how I knew what the baby-making pieces are and how they fit, but I can't seem to pinpoint the exact moment. It's like I knew by instinct. Kinda scary, now that I think about it.), and partly because I have painfully realized that when it comes to Christmas and birthday wishes, I never get EXACTLY what i want. I have better luck with wishes made on the other 363 (and a half) days of the year.

But at this moment, I wish there were really a jolly, rolly-polly man in red whose sole mission in life is to make Christmas morning the absolute BEST (in the most mercenary sense of the word, at least) time of the year.

So Santa, I will abandon all sense and logic present in my being and believe that you exist and are able to chute down chimneys (or enter doors and gates and windows and cave openings -I mean, there are kids outside North America and the cold parts of Europe who believe in you too, you know. Santa's not racist, right?), eat cookies, drink milk, leave a present lovingly crafted by elves from your bottomless sack of wondrous things, twinkle your eyes, and climb up again to where your sleigh and deers are parked, and repeat the process an infinite number of times, all in the span of a few hours. And yes, I've probably done my share of naughty things this year, but you and I know that I could've been a lot worse. A LOT. And I promise to bake you all the cookies that you want. Do you want cakes, too? Or even pies? Name a baked good, I promise to deliver.

Because i really, really, really want this.

You could also probably throw in a driver's license and a red Ferrari while you're at it, since you owe me, oh i don't know, twenty-odd years' worth of Christmas cheer. I'm just saying.

People should just chill.

One of these days, I'd wake up with "EXCOMMUNICATED" etched on my forehead.

Despite my disagreement with some of its teachings, I am content being Catholic. Please don't ask me to defend that statement because I honestly wouldn't be able to justify it. It's the truth, is all. I just started going to mass regularly again and I feel... comforted by just finding myself inside the church. so much so that the thought of converting to any other faith seems so undoable to me (yes, even if the loveliest boys in the world are Jewish. Conservative, loyal, steadfast je... no, i won't cry.)

And yet, sometimes, sometimes, I wonder why we Catholics are so surprised that we get so much criticism.

Because things like this don't really do wonders for our reputation for being close-minded and unforgiving.

The same thing happened to Harry Potter, I remember. And what was the result of all that? NOTHING. J.K. Rowling still made money, I still enjoyed reading the seven books (including the much-hated last one), Dumbledore still got be to gay (Although, really, what was up with that revelation? You guys know that I'm all for pride, but I just didn't see the point. How was that relevant to the whole Harry Potter saga? Did she come up with that just for the sake of it? I just don't get the reasoning behind all of it.), and, as far as I know, we haven't found our planet overtaken by little wannabe witches and wizards ala Children of the Corn (except that they would be worshipping either "He Who Must Not Be Named" or "The Boy With The Scar" instead of "He Who Walks Behind The Rows", of course). At least not yet.

In any case, banning books and movies wouldn't do you any good. People, haven't all those years of hiding Playboy underneath your mattresses taught you anything?

And truthfully, whenever kids read about magic and wizards and saving the world by beating all sorts of horrible beasts, the last thing they'd do is sit and reconsider their religious beliefs. It's when they grow up and look at the utter mess the world is in that they do that.

Also, as much as I love the man's work, I think I would break Philip Pullman's atheist heart by telling him that after I sobbed and marveled at his three books, it actually reminded me of God and Adam and Eve and salvation much like how the Chronicles of Narnia left me with the greatest and most beautiful picture of what heaven would be like.

...
My laziness has gone to a whole new level. I'm so reluctant to do... practically everything. I don't remember being anything but lazy, but still, when you notice yourself too spent from doing nothing to even eat, well, you might have a reason to get worried.

Not that i'm losing weight. I skip a meal and then my body just revolts in return and gets back at me by craving for (and consuming) everything and anything that could be considered edible. The other day, i found myself jonesing (and that's not an exag, i was positively shaking with need) for sweet and sour pork - the only thing on a chinese restaurant menu that I wouldn't normally even touch with my toe.

Our neighborhood Starbucks? I made them millionaires many times over. It's too bad we don't get those planners you Manila friends seem to love so much because I could've shipped you guys a gazillion of these.

I'm now here, sitting with my added poundage (my sister saw me in a tank top today and didn't even bother hiding her disgust when she bluntly told me, "Fuck, you're fat.") and my Speedy Gonzales heartbeat, trying to find something that will me put me in a good mood.

I am not succeeding.

You guys looking for something nice to do this Christmas? Make me smile.