Why All Women Need At Least One Man

Man friend that is. I'm not of the school of thought that men and women can't be friends because somewhere, somehow along the lines feelings are involved. I call bullshit on that. Perhaps that's because I don't go around crushing on my niggas but really, I value the thoughts if my male friends much more than my female ones. How could you say such a thing Ally? I mean, really women are more well-rounded with their thought process, don't you appreciate that? Like hell.

Don't get me wrong, I'm as fragile and sometimes petty as the woman one seat over but I don't often care for the addition of female fluff to pad my issues. Your male friends will never pad. And I never pad for them. Or for my female friends actually... which explains why I have so few. It all boils down to this simple fact: bitches be lyin'. You're always wrong but not really wrong. And it's always, "who does he think he is?" and "i can't believe he did that!" I have the same convo with my male friends and they're all like, "you know you should've seen that shit comin, come on now." And then I actually have to stop and THINK. Psh. Men. Burstin women's bubbles since 500 B.C.

Anyhoo, tonight I was having a convo with a friend in which sex was briefly "discussed". I use the quotations there because men don't really discuss sex. For women any talk about sex could turn into a book, for men it can be narrowed to a simple sentence. Specifically when addressing casual sex. When is casual sex ever casual for a woman? Didn't Justin and Mila just address this?! So I said to him "sex is complicated" to which he responds, "it definitely is not" and goes on to break it down in man sense.

For men it's basically as simple as a handshake, we're doing nothing but having sex - simple. That's a binding contract right there. For us it STARTS that simple and can turn into something else if we're attracted to the person outside of just the physical (insert fine print complication here). 

We think, "maybe, just maybe this could be more and this will just be the funny tale of how we became mr. and mrs." (catastrophe pending!) Men think (in the words of my friend), "just don't fuck them like you love them. pull their hair and shit."

A female friend would interpret that as "ooh maybe he's just freaky" but this is why I love and appreciate ma mens. Because I know that if ever I were to enter into a casual sex arrangement and he pulls my hair I better just enjoy the ride and neatly pack my oestrogen riddled brain in my overnight bag. Simple life 101.

Your knowledge-seeking man hugger,


Image from: cartoonstock.com


Therapeutic Gangster Rap

There's just something about Thursdays that automatically make me feel like shit. And what is it with random showers of heavy ass rain on a Thursday anyway? Basically, Thursday is an asshole. It was however, interesting to (tentatively) embark on my adventure of seeing a therapist. There I was sitting in the waiting room expecting a frail-looking woman with round spectacles to peep from behind the wooden door and ask me - with a very Keanu Reeves monotone - to come in. Imagine my surprise and awkward facial expression when this bubbly adorable woman emerged smiling and chirping hellos. Ok Thursday...

There was no couch, no weird instrumentals fucking with my subconscious, and no one sitting across the table nodding and taking notes while randomly inserting an automated "mhm". She's almost as animated as I am, didn't outright gawk like my girlfriends but she reacted like a regular human being would and best of all she's HILARIOUS. Like, I think she may have been Eddie Murphy (a la Beverly Hills Cop not Pluto Nash) in a previous life. I. Love. Her.

But of course this would not be a tale of my life if there wasn't something awkward amidst the interesting social interactions. I cursed. I cursed at my Christian therapist. Not my usual F (and MF...and C...and friends) bombs but I said shit and asshole a few times. I was actually quite proud of myself. What self control I possess! She was able to confirm my sanity (aaaaaahh!!!) and assure me that I wasn't in fact fuckin up. Did I mention she was awesome beyond all definitions of awesomeness?

Following the relief of my visit I was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to listen to gangster rap. Wu Tang Clan ain't nothing to fuck with. And neither is B.I.G. Thuggin Thursdays. It was perfection.

The saga continues!

Your Zen Master,



Seasonal Resolutions And Things

Following my last awkwardly obscure post (all mobsters know snitching gets you murked) I decided to do a switcharoo for the blog. Every new year I say I'm going to write more, share my rants and other musings with the world while trying not to say too much about my actual life because oversharing makes me nauseous. Time to change that. Just a little.

In order to actually write more about my random and excessively theatrical life I will be sharing a little more of ME with you. This will include my most amusing interactions, loads of aliases, maybe some video, definitely some pictures, and interesting things I run into on a daily basis. The word daily as used in that sentence does not mean I will be posting daily however. But it's an improvement, yes?

This year was full of changes and overhauls for me and now that I'm decidedly less cynical but absolutely still a comedic case I'm going to let you into my head a little. Even my dearest loves (said friends who bitch slapped me out of my quarter-life crisis) are weary of the thoughts floating around in here. Enter at your own risk of course.

The adventure begins tomorrow with *insert drumroll and other suspense-inducing sounds here* therapy. Yes, therapy. Yes, that therapy where you see a therapist who takes notes while you lay on a couch and/or vomit because of the nausea induced by oversharing. This is an adventure for me because my friends outwardly gawk at the shit I tell them about my life and I always wondered what a therapist would say, so I'm going to test one. 

I know right now you're envisioning an eye-twitching, awkwardly conspicuous psychopath but sane people get therapy too! Friends and family are generally biased (yes, no matter how much they try not to be) and at times you just need an independent party to tell you when you're fuckin up. God, if my therapist curses this will be the beginning of a very long love affair. She better not be one of those, "and how did that make you feel?" types because I won't be able to stop laughing and from experience I know that can be counter-productive.

So we begin a new chapter ahead of the new year and if 2012 brings the wrath of Armageddon upon us, I'll be at my cursing therapist's office drinking tea and discussing my absurd emotions. Here's hoping.

Your silly wabbit,


Image from toonpool.com


The Audacity of Closure

Years of movies and regurgitated therapeutic rhetoric has lead us to believe that when things happen in our lives that hurt us no matter how much we try to move forward there is just one final piece of the puzzle that’s missing. This final piece that threatens to leave us “incomplete” forever is closure. Like many of you, I was of the belief that I would forever be labelled a baggage handler if I didn’t confront the person who wronged me. I somehow assumed that if I faced this person and asked the questions I felt I desperately needed answers to, all will be well in the world. Meh...

Delving into those emotions past only sent me down a path that was better off barricaded (and surrounded by warning signs and booby-traps). The thing about emotions, particularly those dealing with love and other associated romantic notions, is that you can only wield so much control over them. Beyond that point they take on a life of their own. And so, in seeking nothing but peace of mind and the mythical being ‘closure’, I got lost. Not send-a-search-party lost but I definitely lost my bearings and spent a night in the wilderness.

There is a reason this person is no longer a part of my life and despite not having gotten the answers to any of my questions (because as much as we like to see it movies, in reality dogs can’t talk) I was given so much more. I didn’t get the type of closure you see in movies. You know the thank-you-for-being-honest-I’ll-be-on-my-way-now-bless-you *cue the music* but I got the truth anyway. It’s not always as straight forward or simple as I would like it to be. Suffice to say, I can never get closure from someone else. They are the ones who have to deal with what they’ve done. My only duty is to forgive them and release myself of the burden so I can be happy.

As enlightening and devastating as that experience was, it has strangely renewed my hope. I was always of the belief that at least once in our lives, no matter where on the timeline, we all eventually get the love we deserve. In retrospect, despite the soap opera melodrama of that day, I wouldn’t have done anything differently and I’m actually better for it. You never really see me discussing intensely personal things here, because it's hard to articulate my emotions that aren't humorous, so I’ll let my love Nina touch on the issue. Really she says it better than I ever could. 

Your soldier of love,


What an appropriate description! :)


October: The Month of Early-Onset Insanity

Mere days before my birthday I found myself sipping some wine and slowly but surely sinking to the bottom of the glass. My life, which was previously believed to filled with love and laughter and yes, many a few disastrous failures, morphed into a dry wasteland. I haven't done enough, seen enough, been disciplined or productive enough - it's not enough! What have I done with the last 23 years of my life exactly?!

Still unanswered, it turns out this enigma was brought on by a quarter-life crisis. I know, I also shook my head. This usually happens to people between the ages of 25-30 but of course in true Alicia fashion, I'm experiencing it at 23. It's essentially a phase where you begin questioning and over-analysing your life. It would appear that my introverted ways are catching up with me, thus causing this shit storm that wasn't due for another 2-7 years (sigh). Throughout the process I was able to maintain a substandard of sanity thanks to my spectacular and impatient ass friends who aided me through the bouts of depression and told me to stop my shit. I love them.

Symptomatic of this early-onset crisis I was introduced to (and overwhelmed by) loneliness, perhaps even fructifying the crisis more so than being a product of it. Not only was I taken aback by this (finding myself using the word 'lonely' in conversation is quite the experience) but I am now submerged in it. Originally I assumed it was because I went from a long-term relationship to an ephemeral pseudo-relationship to now being absolutely singular. But despite being the girl who loves to go the movies alone, take long solo walks through the city and generally living the live of a seldom-socialised hermit - I find myself constantly on the verge of an anxiety attack. I still savour the time spent with my family, my brilliantly entertaining little cousins, my friends, my friend, yet I'm still aware of a void I can't currently fill.

As recently as 4 days ago this void was a canyon, but as the dust starts to settle on 23 the downward spiral is becoming more of a startling dip into a pothole than me plummeting to my spinsterly death. As for the other aspects - an inactive social life, an even more inactive love life, my hatred of college, my lack of a career - I figure they'll all sort themselves out in time. For now I'm trying to focus on being ready for the great things I want to happen. That's a full-time job so technically I'm not a total bum.

I'm not sure how long these things last according to science but for now I feel like I've been through the worst of it and heading towards recovery. Hopefully this isn't one of those "calm before the storm" moments. Fingers crossed.

Your lonely beaver,



Her Majesty The Cynic

I was once upon a time (yes, I just said 'once upon a time') proud to call myself a cynic. I would turn my proud cynical nose up at the optimists (the majority only briefly visiting the disposition) and laugh at their naïveté, mocking. Cynicism was a dose of reality that I had a tendency to overdose on. As I went through my many developmental phases over the years, I began scrutinising the cynical way I had honed for so long. The lingering taste of bitterness started replacing my saliva, like somehow being a cynic had turned me into something other than just an average human being. The Cynic took over, thus becoming Her Majesty.

Her Majesty ruled with an iron (albeit bejewelled) fist, seldom smiled and when one did appear it was oft a sarcastic smirk or pretentious greeting. Though glorious and splendidly irreverent at first, she soon became tart and inappropriate. When Her Majesty starts meeting the family, it's gone too far. Her Majesty is like the girl you take to bars and casual social gatherings, often introduced to acquaintances but only fleetingly socialising with friends. She's great company when you have nothing better to do and is a distant memory when your life is filled with more meaningful matters. She is never, under any circumstances to meet the family. And so, we parted ways.

Recently, I have been bumping into Her Majesty everywhere I go. And by recently I mean two days now. Very recently. She looks radiant and reminds me of our good times. She was a good friend. Loyal. But I still refused the offers to have a drink and drown my accumulation of sorrows. I told her that I fell in love with the most wonderful man I've ever known and she scoffed noticeably as if to remind me of the other "most wonderful" men we've known. I wanted to knock her teeth out but that's exactly what she'd like me to do so instead I took a deep breath and smiled, warmly. She seemed astonished. Bitch. That's what the old me would think anyway. I've been ignoring her calls, deleting her emails and yet, I look back on the times we've had and a part of me wants to believe that her scoff is accurate, that she is the kind of friend I should have in my life, instead of these fleeting bouts of optimism and faith (which she considers to be a legitimate illness) that I've clung to. 

Perhaps her barbed wire exterior isn't aesthetically pleasing but at least intruders can't run in and out, stealing all her valuables. Not much is precious to her but the few things that are remain well guarded around the clock. I sometimes wonder if even she can still access them. Maybe there is something to Her Majesty's ways. She never smiles, or blushes, or laughs heartily, but she also never cries. Yet, despite the displeasure of tears (and snatty noses), I have decided to keep Her Majesty exactly where she is - in the far reaches of my mind. I never much cared for barbed wire.

Your Highness The Ephemeral Optimist,


image copyright http://www.creativedisease.com


A Wise Man Once Said...

A friend of mine recently sent me the book 'The Alchemist' by Paulo Coelho which I delved into this morning while having my first cup of tea. I was immediately intrigued but unsure whether my interest stemmed from the book itself or how relevant the book is to my current stage in life. Either way, it was simply written - in an elegant fashion, and a wonderful place to start my day. One part in particular stood out to me though, a story told to the main character in the book, that I feel compelled to share.

Paulo Coelho - The Alchemist: Part One 

"A certain shopkeeper sent his son to learn about the secret of happiness
from the wisest man in the world. The lad wandered through the desert for
forty days, and finally came upon a beautiful castle, high atop a mountain. It
was there that the wise man lived.

"Rather than finding a saintly man, though, our hero, on entering the main
room of the castle, saw a hive of activity: tradesmen came and went,
people were conversing in the corners, a small orchestra was playing soft
music, and there was a table covered with platters of the most delicious
food in that part of the world. The wise man conversed with everyone, and
the boy had to wait for two hours before it was his turn to be given the
man's attention.

"The wise man listened attentively to the boy's explanation of why he had
come, but told him that he didn't have time just then to explain the secret of
happiness. He suggested that the boy look around the palace and return in
two hours.

" 'Meanwhile, I want to ask you to do something,' said the wise man,
handing the boy a teaspoon that held two drops of oil. 'As you wander
around, carry this spoon with you without allowing the oil to spill.

"The boy began climbing and descending the many stairways of the palace,
keeping his eyes fixed on the spoon. After two hours, he returned to the
room where the wise man was.

" 'Well,' asked the wise man, 'did you see the Persian tapestries that are
hanging in my dining hall? Did you see the garden that it took the master
gardener ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my

"The boy was embarrassed, and confessed that he had observed nothing.
His only concern had been not to spill the oil that the wise man had
entrusted to him.

" 'Then go back and observe the marvels of my world,' said the wise man.
'You cannot trust a man if you don't know his house.'

"Relieved, the boy picked up the spoon and returned to his exploration of
the palace, this time observing all of the works of art on the ceilings and the
walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around him, the beauty of the
flowers, and the taste with which everything had been selected. Upon
returning to the wise man, he related in detail everything he had seen.

" 'But where are the drops of oil I entrusted to you?' asked the wise man.
"Looking down at the spoon he held, the boy saw that the oil was gone.

" 'Well, there is only one piece of advice I can give you,' said the wisest of
wise men. 'The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels of the world,
and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.' "

The shepherd said nothing. He had understood the story the old king had
told him. A shepherd may like to travel, but he should never forget about his


I need not comment, expound, or share my perspective on this story. I would just like you to think about this and hold on to it.

Your wandering traveller in search of riches,