Friday, December 31, 2010

let's just never wake up. deal? deal.

"I would have given my first and last breaths to have spent the first minutes of the decade with my parents despite our turbulent relationship. I love them more than I really should, given some of the things they've put me through. But then again, i think they love me more than they really should as well, considering the small hells i've put them through time and time again."
-Yuri Kimura, 2010

My first and last breaths of the decade and decade to come are going to be taken with these two humans tonight, and i wish more than anything that they weren't.
what the FUCK does this mean?
I was up all fucking night last year working and self loathing, in a dirty fucking motel room; alone. I was covered in booze and smoke and party and regret. I woke up wishing i could've been with my parents and eating soba i wish to fall asleep, magically drift into the sleep of a million years like some fairy tale princess..

God fucking damn this blog is pointless.
I don't even care who reads this shit anymore. I don't care if it's loved or hated, i don't care if people develop opinions on my character soley based on the verbal vomit that i pour out on this page, what the hell. why not?

i've realized that it takes a somewhat selfish and self deprecatory person to write a blog. A blog doesn't make me famous. A blog doesn't recognize the fact that i've been through hell and not nearly close to coming back; it doesn't validate me. A blog doesn't justify even a fraction of the shit that i choose to write about. A blog doesn't earn me the right to be a self righteous, smarmy little girl.
For some it might.
For me, it doesn't.
I wonder if my words will ever be validated. There are amazing people who believe in me enough to want to publish my words. I'm a scared son of a bitch and keep putting off getting around to and submitting a final edit. Self-sabotage?
i need a key to unlock my wods, a key to take my emotions and turn them into something tangible; words on paper, words in print, words on a screen...
that key is ultimately something that makes me FEEL something strong enough to feel the urge to capture the moment, to make me reach for a pen and paper or jump on my phone or the nearest available computer and turn my speeding thoughts into a written form that someone else might be able to

Friday, December 24, 2010

maybe it's optimists vs pessimists, not masochists vs sadists?

Sunday Morning demolition guy's joint gift of appreciation. i DO love money and i DO love salt and pepper. They know me well.

Shelley <3

Ron's Gift..

Ron with garden salad, grk dressing and g.toast.

Janice and Cooki

My last post was something was the verbalization of all the dark things that i realize drive us to destroy, and it ended unlike anything else i've ever written. My endings are usually blithe, sarcasm/dark-humour infused one-liners, meant to take the bitter edge off of the rest of my words. Apparently it's what makes my writing style so readable; i'll touch upon some dark, insightful shit then i'll joke about it and make the reader laugh.
I didn't laugh at my last post.

Then i got to thinking, am i dwelling on the negative because it feels good to have something to excuse my destructive behaviors on? Am i constantly surrounded by positivity, and only seeing it when it suits my best interests? Do i blame the negativity for all of the shit in my life because it's so much easier than realizing that i am actually just selfish for having secret mini death wishes? Am i refusing to seek help because i JUST.DON'T. WANNA?

So i was thinking back to my shift yesterday at the restaurant; it's been described as a restaurant that is in a "black hole of a junkie, whorehouse, filthy piece of shit excuse for a place to go work at".
This is true. It is what it is. But it's also a place where the inner beauty of people is so much more apparent when it's surrounded by so much darkness.
I have my regulars. I have a good memory. I like making people happy. So, i know that when Biker Dave comes in he's gonna have coffee in a to-go cup with 2 creamers and 2 sugar twin, with an extra-large (i break out the biggest bowl we have) of the soup of the day with 5 packs of crackers.
When Janice comes in every morning (minus Tuesdays) she has a glass of cold water, no ice, and the 2 Egg Sunshine breakfast. 2 eggs scrambled, hashbrowns without seasoning, crisp bacon (not burnt) and cucumber slices and grapes instead of toast. Her boyfriend of 7 years just gave her a promise ring. She loves to read.
Jim comes in every day without fail, on Saturdays he meets his brother (who looks like Paul Newman) and gets the 2 Egg Sunshine breakfast, with his eggs poached medium, brown toast buttered to the edges, tomato slices and grapefruit instead of meat. And one orange marmalade, because he makes an open faced egg sandwich with one slice, and eats the other with the marmalade. Coffee black.
Brenda is part of the Osborne Village Biz. She comes in every morning and sometimes for lunch. When it's really cold out she gets a small bowl of oatmeal in a big bowl so that she can put in lots of warmed up 2% and an order of dry rye with peanut butter and honey.
When it's not killer cold out she'll get a fried onion and cheddar omelet with grilled tomato slices instead of hashbrowns, buttered rye.
Al comes in every day. EVERY DAY, he's a mechanical engineer (like my dad) and specializes in air; cooling, heating, air filtration etc. He has an office/house on Gertrude a few blocks away but lives outside of the city. Al is 76.
Al is one of my best friends.
He's so smart, so fucking smart...he's old and wise and we have a relationship based completely on trust and respect and have nothing to gain from each other except for the insight of someone who's completely opposite on the outside, yet ultimately the exact same on the inside.
I know so much about his past; his childhood, his schooling, his upbringing, his opinions on religion and spirituality, his fascination with human social interaction, we share with each other reviews on music, theatre, symphonies, interpretations of biblical passages (that is for another entry entirely).
But i've come to realize that in this deep pit of despair, this black hole of an establishment, there is so much beauty to be found. There are people who come faithfully every day, not only for the cheap food and close proximity, but for the conversation with me and exchange of daily experiences. I have come to rely and depend on my regulars to keep my routine what it is; routine. I have established bonds with people who outside of the restaurant, i would never have had the chance to get to know. The way i look, the way i do my hair or makeup or dress, it has little to no relevance to someone like Al. He looks at me and my stupid new tattoos and laughs as he says, "Well, you only live once, right?", or on the flipside, "Why would you ruin your body like that?" (i'm assuming it's his engrained old-school mentality on tattoos that makes him think like that.) It's never a matter of proving my punk-rockness to someone, it's never a matter of destroying my body to gain attention, because these people couldn't care less. They take notice of when i lose weight and invite me to sit down and take a break, eat lunch with them. They notice when i'm not my usual cheery self and ask me how my day is going with a genuine concern. I do the same for them.
Ron has worked at the front desk for 20 years. Chances are, if you've been to a show at the Zoo in the past 2 decades, you've met him. He is cranky. He is jaded. He is worn and old and so accepting of human scum that he'll treat you the same whether you're a junkie, prostitute, medical student or police officer. He doesn't smile. He doesn't care how you are today. He gets his job done, he rents out rooms, he sells cigarettes and lighters, and he calls security when someone shows up too drunk to fight or call their own cab.
He works 11pm-7am and always orders a chili dog and fries to go (he lives upstairs) or a medium garden salad with garlic toast unsliced for breakfast/lunch when he gets off of shift.
Yesterday he came up to me and gave me a card and an assortment of chocolates and said, "I was going to get you something to wear but i didn't know your size".


This is a man who probably hasn't shopped for a woman since he was child and shopped for his mother. This is a man who has been described by many as a "tightwad", a "Scrooge", a "total grouch."
Are you fucking serious? I felt tears well up in my eyes when i saw his smile reach his own gray eyes in appreciation/adoration for me. I know what he likes to eat, so i make sure he gets it. Simple enough, right? I think for him, it's a big deal because no one had ever made sure that he had his meal ready for him when he got off of his graveyard shift, no one ever offered him a glass of ice water when it was hot outside and there was no air conditioning inside of the hotel.
I have come to realize that there is so much beauty in the world that we don't allow ourselves to see because we're born to stereotype, and the only acceptance we have is for someone who will somehow validate us on a meaningless surface level. We'll donate to Cancer Care Manitoba because it makes us seem empathetic or people who 'fight for a cause'.
I personally think that's all bullshit, and i am so fucking grateful to the people who have opened my eyes to a world of beauty while working in an abyss of everything that is wrong in this world.

Happy New Year.


Thursday, December 23, 2010

and so this is Christmas.

lately i've felt dark and quiet inside.
i've felt like my light that burns so bright and overpowers everything dark in it's path;
i feel like it's not bright enough sometimes.

i don't know who reads this. i don't know if there are people out there who read this and who don't know what my current situation is...
here it is in a nutshell.

1. I'm a wreck these days.
2. I try hard (so.hard.) to be a good person and shine my light on others.
3. I have come to so many epiphanies and realizations and reached the 'next level' of comprehension of the human psyche merely through the day-to-day interaction and conversation with friends that i feel like i may just explode. I have a million thoughts a minute that i feel like everytime i have a relevant realization, i feel the need to blog it or somehow articulate it but it's never at an opportune time. I'll be serving a customer and feeling like shit and faking a smile, and they'll look at me and tell me that i'm the brightest part of their day. I'll be in the kitchen and prepping desserts and the cook will look at me and tell me i'm 'pretty good for a girl'. I read so much into these moments and overanalyze them, but it's heightened my awareness to the point of me realizing what it is that makes us human.
4. I had a conversation that spiralled downward into the fundamentals of what it is that


the question, "What is the meaning of life"? has gone unanswered until now.

I have realized that the meaning of life is to ultimately be the person who proves themselves to be superior to the rest of civilization. We live 'selfless' lives by helping others because we WANT TO BE PERCEIVED AS BETTER THAN THE SELFISH WHO DON'T CARE...but when it comes down to it, does that not make us selfish? We want to prove that we are helpful and caring and generous and grateful, so that we can feel better than our peers who are uncaring.
We are divided into 2 categories as a species; the ones who try to better the world around us, and the ones who take advantage of what the world can give us. The givers want to be responsible for the change, the shift of human consciousness. They want to disprove the belief that we are all born to die, and our time on this planet is irrelevant. They want to sincerely CHANGE THE WORLD and whether or not it's selfish, it's respectable. On the opposite side of the spectrum, we have the ones who know that we all have an expiration date and milk every drop of life that they can. They know that we're all gonna die and there's vulnerable people out there who will cave to their every whim and make their existence more pleasureable, usually on a material level.
The givers are the optimists. They want to change the taker's perception of life, regardless of it's on a physical, material level or a human, emotional level. They like to believe that their light can overpower the dark, they want to believe that they can change a person who's jaded and dead on the inside to someone who is more like-minded and positive. They NEED to believe that their light can overpower the dark. They need to see the darkest of the dark and try to change that with their light. They need to be challenged constantly, given new hurdles to jump and new obstacles to overcome; they need to find someone/something who is on the complete opposite end of the spectrum and shift that person's mentality to prove that they are ultimately right.
For instance.
Take a girl who is a taker.
Hey, she's fucked on every level. She hates herself, she can't deal with her emotions, she puts other people down to elevate her own self-worth, she slowly kills herself in any way she knows how because she feels that she deserves it. She goes to parties because she knows that she's pretty enough to bat her lashes and inhale your 8-ball with a giggle and a smirk and there's never a question of paying for anyfuckingthing tonight.
She'll charm you with a cheap smile and make you feel important. To you, that's somehow enough. She thinks you're a fucking idiot.
Night after night she does this. Night after night she feels deader, more vacant, more she's only good for one thing.
Smile. Take a pretty picture. Dress like a slut. Drink all the punch.
At the end of the night, there is nothing. NOTHING.
All along, she's known that she is a good person. All along, she has known that she has her intellect and her charm and her fascination for the world around her to keep her fueled, she doesn't need the worthless compliments or the many vices she has come to depend on to keep her alive.
She realizes that life is about living, not trying to kill. It's not about tamping down emotions with chemicals, it's not about seeing the dark side of people to try to feel empowered, it's not about self medicating because she has somehow deserved this feeling of inadequacy.
Her life becomes about trying to show others that living is possible without trying to make something else die. Her life becomes about overcompensating for the fact that she was at one point; a selfish, naive, ungrateful hollow excuse for a human life.
Her highs come from making SOMEONE ELSE smile, when they feel undeserving of it.
Her highs come from elevating someone else's self-worth, because she KNOWS how it feels to have that epiphany herself, how validating it is for someone to point out every positive aspect of her and know that it's not just hollow vacant words.
Her highs come from knowing deep down, that she has always been deserving of kindness and respect but pushed it away because someone else was always trying to push HER down to elevate THEMSELVES.

I have known the dark side. I have tried hard, so bloody fucking hard to make every sad person i know smile because i know that i've BEEN THEM and it's POSSIBLE for them to smile and be the person who i am today.
I know that i am in the place, the situation that i'm in today because i tried to prove myself to be a good person to someone who will ultimately never comprehend the enormity of what i'm trying to offer. Some things will never be changed. Some values are set in stone, and that's commendable. I want to make the world a better place, yet ultimately, i have a self-destructive side and that is my choice to make whether it's via alcohol, self-hate, or unattainable goals.

Life lesson learned:

We are all born knowing that we are going to die.
From an evolutionary standpoint, we want to be the most successful, the most evolved entity that we can when we die, so that we set the precedent for the next generation and have our legacy live when we cease to exist.
We ultimately elevate ourselves through a series of pushing others down so that we can seem superior. We need to feel better than the next so that our existence has purpose.
We dwell on feeling negatively towards ourselves so that we have something (a goal) to constantly strive for, to achieve; because if we didn't, our lives would have no purpose.

It comes down to us being divided between sadists and masochists.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

i have so many words but i'm fucking speechless.

My name's Yuri.

i'm a headcase.
I often have high levels of self loathing, and i hate men.
I hate men who come into my fucking restaurant and tell me how "BEAUTIFUL!" i am.

here's some truth for you..
can you handle it?

I used to be fascinated and consumed with surface value beauty.
I used to love

show me your bones baby, show me you don't need anything else in the world but your own selfish (vapid) indulgence of your idea of beauty.

let me tell you how many negative calories i ate.
let me tell you how much i drank today.
let me shove this needle into my vein so that you know that i'm DEADFUCKINGSERIOUS
about getting fucked up tonight.

i'm DEADFUCKINGSERIOUS when i laugh at the fact that i might have *done too much
and *don't care if i wake up tonight.

i will never again pursue fucking cocaine in a needle to fulfill this void in me.
i will never again take your surgical scalpel to my tender flesh to see how much i bleed.
i will never again carve hate into my skin just to feel something.

let me dissect myself and my psychosis for a minute.

Okay...Happy childhood. Privleged (ie:spoiled) upbringing, everything handed to me on a silver fucking platter.
i was overweight as a kid, as a teen. ok. that sucks.

discovered the joys of self denial and myspace (if anything perpetuated eating disorders in the early 21st century, it was the over-abundance of emo kids on myspace).

I have realized that i will never be good enough.

i may have lost 50lbs. i may have learned how to do my makeup. i may have learned how to not hate you for asking to take my picture and thrown you a fake pose or two..

but no amount of makeup will ever cover up my damage.
I am inherently broken.
sure. we all are.
i have so many complexes it's not even funny...
but i know that the subtraction of cocaine from my life has shown me how beautiful and wonderous life can truly be.
I am an amazing woman. I have so much positive energy in me at times that it's someti

Thursday, November 11, 2010 a verbal oil spill...messy and oh-so-hard to filter and contain.

it's been quite some time since i've managed to summon the inner strength and courage to make public any of the thought processes that sometimes shuttle through my head at the speed of light. now don't get me wrong, friends-i am indescribably happy and peaceful at most times. Some moments though, they shake me to the core and that core is a little more rotten than i'd like to think. I fear articulating what goes on inside the secret mess that i hide with a lion's mane, i fear for the response it may stir in anyone who may read what i write in this little corner of the internet, because my fleeting moments of instability may be misconstrued as a lasting mental inmbalance that may be unfixable. Truth be told, i feel some days more than others that i've become a sham, a fake; one who's crumbling foundations are becoming more and more apparent with every tremor or earthquake that life brings. I feel some days like a shimmering wall of positivity and good energy that people flock to in droves, others i feel like i may just self implode into a black hole of nothingness. The black hole days are very very few and far between, but when those days are upon me...there's nothing on this earth that can remind me of how it feels to be the sunlight.
I would hate for this blog to turn into another rant of how i used to be a tiny little girl, armed with a needle of snowflakes and a heart of dying flames. sure, i've come some distance, but i'm reminded a little more with each passing day of just how innately damaged i've become.
Being damaged is somehow worse to being "flawed". Think about it. A porcelain doll in a china shop with a rough chip on her shoulder from a careless drop, with a worn yellow tag screaming

DAMAGED 50% off!

If another porcelain figurine was "flawed", it would quietly sit on the shelf and gaze upon me with a cold, glazed stare of seeming superiority, although we all know it's just indifference (dolls don't feel anything). Maybe it's left foot is slightly discoloured or it's paint is not as shiny; barely noticeable yet still enough to be considered a "flaw". it's part of it's character-it's just how it was made. It's never known any other life, it still gets picked up off of the shelf every once in awhile for a dusting, or occasionally to be admired by a set of adoring human eyes. Maybe a grandmother adding another to her collection, maybe a young man courting a young lady and looking for a gift to show how much he cares. The DAMAGED will silently watch as they both inevitably pass her by because she's somehow cheapened by the fading label someone once placed on her. She once was shiny and beautiful and new, but a little carelessness on a blank faced stranger's part, *oopsie, dropped the dolly* and a little piece stays on the ground, to be swept into the garbage at the day's end. Maybe that chip is what gives that sad little doll character. Maybe she deserves to be treasured too. Maybe someone has a little paint at home that they could take to her and make her shiny and new again.
But no.
People want to cling to the hope that she might be salvageable, but it's simply too much work, dear. People don't want the residue of paint, or glue staining their hands in failure as they inevitably put the damn doll back on the top shelf, out of sight and out of mind; still chipped.
if she could sigh in defeat, she would (but dolls don't sigh). "Shoulda got the other one," the shamed new owner would think to themselves. Maybe the girl getting wooed by the charming young man who gifted her with it would think less of herself, undeserving or somehow unworthy of an unbroken present.
If i were something to be purchased in a shop, i would come with a disclaimer. "Warning, may exhibit signs of borderline personality disorder, associate inanimate objects with past repressed emotions and eat (or not eat) foods in an unnatural and slightly disturbing manner."
I might cry when someone tells me not to eat popcorn and think nothing of it, except for that i'm clearly a fat cow who doesn't deserve to occasionally indulge in a salty, highly caloric and fattening snack. I might frown when someone notices that i spend a few minutes studying and inspecting my food for temperature, size of vegetables, and spiciness before i throw it all to fiery hell anyway by dousing it in hot sauce.I may even stop eating when someone points out that i've already eaten a "normal" amount for the day so i really don't need to eat anymore if i don't want to.
christ, if i had my way i wouldn't have to eat at all some days. If my tastebuds were a bunch of tiny dicks, they would all immediately be rendered impotent at the first mention of my weight.
and oh yeah, WHO THE HELL THINKS IT'S ACCEPTABLE TO MENTION WEIGHT TO A GIRL ANYWAY?! especially virtual strangers? It's the equivalent of me walking up to a stranger and saying, "Hey bud, you're not bad looking buuuut...your ears kind of stick out funny and you should get a new stylist because your receding hairline is not AT ALL flattered by your current cut."
I've been in the service industry for years, and i've heard it all. "Oh ma gawwd, your makeup is amazing!" "....whoooaa, rough night last night? hahaa!" "...jeez, yuri, where have you been eating? Auschwitz?" "wow, glad to see you've put on somne weight gurrl, you look healthy!" "eat a fuckin cracker, Kimura!" "so...when is the baby due?"
that last one fucking kills.
to hear that feels someone took my heart and pulled it to the floor of my stomach. My eyes went hazy, my lips went numb, my hands started to shake and my pinky fingers went cold. all in a matter of seconds. I felt like i was going to hurl. In fact, i wished and regretted not eating something previous to hearing this question, because throwing something up would have made me feel loads better. I feel like i should maybe wear a sign that says, "Warning: extremely sensitive about weight. Past history of disordered eating and dysmorphia." aahh yes, the disclaimer.
A girl does not lose 50 lbs in a year without a little wear and tear on the heart. In fact, the mind goes through a much more drastic transformation than the body does. it doesn't matter if you're a 5'10, 110lb male who starts hitting the gym and becomes a grotesque bodybuilder or a 5'7 178lb girl who decides to put down the fork and pick up the rolled up $50 bill for a well balanced meal of what is seemingly the sweetest little pile of icing sugar in the world. She may one day put that nasty little habit to bed, but she will forever miss the days of smashing hip and collarbones with her friends when they exchange insincere one armed hugs that are actually little competitions to see whose bones are more prominent. Both sides will pull back and wince, and sigh, "ohhh i'm having such a fat day." A fat day is defined by consuming any more than half of the calories that you've already burned double the amount of. Sick. Sick that this is what once brought me the most joy...and i took it away from myself. I took it away and threw it to the wind to make room in my life for things that brought me joy and pleasure again, food, family, friends, music, art, photography, clothing, kids, fruit, biking, reading, ...writing. Such a thing cannot be thrown without caution to the wind without carrying over repurcussions into the next life. The ramifications of how my past choices are affecting those currently around me are astoundingly apparent, especially in a "normal" social setting such as a restaurant or dinner table. I can't help how i eat. I can't help that i feel like a tiny worm under a microscope, or that i wish that a trap door would open up and down down down the rabbit hole i would tumble, like a tiny little Alice. Anything to get me out of the situation. Food is funny. Actually, it's fucked up. It's one of the things i'm most passionate about and love to make and share with people i love, and it's ultimately the one thing i can despise and resent with an unbridled hate that is rivalled only by things like pedophilia, world hunger and child abuse. These things all fire me up and bring out the punk rock FTW version of Yuri who is very rarely seen around anymore.
For awhile, i think i was subconsciously on the hunt for someone who would save me; save me from myself, save me from the big bad cruel world, save me the little devil on my shoulder (who bore a striking resemblance to me, except with bigger hair and sluttier fishnet stockings. ha.) and save me from my inevitable end which i was hurtling headforce towards, with zero disregard for anyone who may not wish me dead. I was at a point where i literally did not care if i lived or died. I wasn't suicidal (anymore. the one person who ever made me feel like dying was out of my life completely at this point.), i didn't have an intentional death wish. I didn't really feel like i had much to live for, except for my family (little brother especially). But the times when i wasn't really quite sure if i woke up or not...well, it's sad really. I just didn't care. now i feel like i have so much to live for, and have had so many second (third, fourth, fifth) chances that i head to the doctor at the slightest indication that i may not be well. I want to live as long as possible, and get as much as i can out of this little slice of life that destiny decided i get to be in control of.
Some days i feel like my life has become such a total 360 turnaround from what it used to be that i'm not actually the person i'm claiming to be. I feel like a character of what the total opposite of a pathetic eating disordered little lost girl should be. I like baking. I like smiling at strangers who look like they could use it. I like holding doors, giving the hitch hikers on osborne whatever leftovers or day old stuff the restaurant has, or bringing them coffee on the cold mornings. I like to remember snippets of conversation with friends and surprise them with things that remind me of those little snippets of my time with them long after they think i've forgotten. I like to trade recipes with customers in the restaurant, i like to believe that
...well, i might not be a sham. I might actually be a little bit fixed?
I didn't need anyone to do it for me. I realized my most fatal flaw was trying to find someone to pick up my pieces and put them back together for me. I needed to do it for myself, because only I know where all the pieces are and where i left them. The cracks still show, some days more than others. But maybe these cracks show character, because i know that i sure as hell have fallen hard for other damaged dolls. Some have hairline fractures that are the small scars of deeper breaks, some wear their damage with pride...but they're all strangely beautiful in their own sad and powerful way. (I just read that people who don't capitalize their 'i's' or the first initial in their names have low self esteem, or perception of self. i'd like to think i'm just too lazy to hold the 'shift' key down...that, and i also cross all of my 'i's' with little x's in real maybe the non-capitalization is the digital equivalent to that? hrmm.)
There was a lady named Wendy who wore her damage with shame. She lived at the Osborne Village Inn for years, and came down to the restaurant daily. I judged her for her cracks. I judged a book by it's cover, even after all these years. I would roll my eyes when her back was turned because her orders were always so messy and demanding. Extra tartar sauce, extra caesar dressing, extra lemon wedges, extra napkins, extra soup crackers, extra pain in the ass. Really, in the grand scheme of things not a pain at all. These kinds of things i gladly do for any other customers, and always without being asked first. my mind somehow retains all the subtle details of people's orders, and i make sure that the girl who gets extra honey dill sauce everytime gets it every damn time. and with a smile, because it's how i roll. I like seeing other people happy.
I thought Wendy was a meth or crack head. She was so thin, so gray and sunken but drank so much it seemed the only logical conclusion to draw. I have turned my back, (out of ignorance? self preservation?) on the live-to-die drug addicts from my past life because they make me so sad. So sad and angry. Sangry, if you will. I've learned that there is no helping those who don't want to be helped. So i feign indifference and move on with trying to keep my own little light shining. Sunday afternoons, I close the restaurant at 4pm. Hell, 8-4 is a long mother day after dealing with my customers single handedly, so i seldom feel bad for turning people away who come in at 3:55 asking for huge meals. My cook and i decided to start shutting down around 3:15, getting the dishes done and finishing prep for the next day etc. My tables were all wiped and set, and i was in the midst of cleaning the coffee machine when i heard footsteps behind me.
"Hiii, Yuri".
"Hi Wendy.
"Sooo uhhh, do you still have that eggs benedict?"
"Sorry, Wendy. All the breakfast stuff is put away. The hollandaise is already cold."
The look of disappointment in her eyes was clearly evident. She smiled her crooked and broken smile in an attempt to sway my decision the other way.
"Aww man! Who's cookin? Roxy? She always makes the best..."
"Sorry Wendy, we're closing up soon. Do you want anything else?"
"Oh no nooo, that's all i wanted. Say, those are some neat glasses. Are they new?"
I continued cleaning and wiping and giving her very little eye contact as i said hurriedly, "No, I just never wear them."
"Well kiddo, you look great in them. You should wear less makeup all the time!"
"Uh huh. Thanks. Sorry bout the Benedict. See ya later."
"Bye, kiddo."

The next morning around 10am i got a text from my other server, Faye.
"they found wendi dead in her room like an hour ago."


I know it's not like i could have saved her sad depraved life had i given in and gone that extra 1/4 mile to make her the eggs benedict. I just got this sudden feeling like rocks in my lungs that maybe just maybe her last meal could have been something she truly enjoyed instead of a cigarette and a flat bottle of coke left sitting on her dresser.
I felt (feel) guilty that i cringed away when she drunkenly hugged me once. I felt (feel) guilty that i didn't comment on her new glasses when she commented on my old ones.
I found out that she was actually once a successful and happy school teacher. She developed some kind of cancer, her husband left her for someone younger and cancer free, she in turn left reality and looked for a new one in the bottom of a bottle. She lost her home, her husband, and her job. She moved into the zoo and had one of her best friends take care of her on the days she was too fucked up or in too much pain to move. She walked with a limp which i mistook for a drunken swagger. Those were the days she was barely alive. Even on those days, she found something nice to say to me, despite the fact that i sometimes pretended to not hear them.
What the hell is wrong with me? She deserved my fucking hugs. She deserved her shiny new glasses to be pointed out and complimented; they were the only thing she was proud of.
I hug people i secretly despise. Walking down the street, or at a show...seeing old friends from my past who squeal with glee when they see me because it's just been soooooo long!
It takes too much effort to explain why i think their life of parties powders and pills is soooooo yesterday so i usually just one arm hug them and get on with my merry little life. In the past, all of the ex boyfriends who fucked with my head and fucked with my heart and fucked with my soul, i clung to them like a Titanic survivor clinging to a lifeboat. People who smile to my face and stab me in the spine...yup, i hugged them too.
The one who maybe just needed a little eye contact or reassurance, or that one last hug...
i didn't hug.
So, the life lesson learned here is that life is short, we all die, if we choose not to die, then we also are granted the choice to choose how to live.
I want to live with peace and honesty and freedom. I want to own my choices, and decisions. I want to make choices and decisions that make others' lives better as a result. I don't want to be a sad broken doll, or damaged goods. I want to see in myself, and in others that sometimes, the damage is sometimes worth a lot more than that which has never needed a little fixing.

i'm going to eat grapes now.
tra la laaa.


Friday, October 1, 2010


i'm scared.
last night in Canora House...last night with my mommas, last night in the kitchen of sex...
The minute I stepped into this kitchen, i immediately fell in love. The black hardwood floors..the island...the brushed stainless steel trough style sink...I felt like a grown up. The floor to ceiling mirror in the dining room...the leather couches and flatscreen room.
My Room.
Organized, down filled duvets and books scattered and filling every spare inch, awaiting me after long days spent on my feet. I felt at home for the first time in my life, for once i felt that i had something to GO HOME TO instead of run away from.
I can't wait to take the next step, the step that brings me closer to the 2 men in my life that also complete me in a way that i've never imagined possible until now.

But I have a secret.

come closer...i don't want the others to hear.

I'm A Mess.

I STILL have those thoughts...i still hate my body. I still wish to be like one of those plasticized exhibits on show at Bodies. I still wish that i had the metabolism of a 6 year old. I still wish that I had the self control to go days(weeks) without eating anything, with the exception of maybe a banana or half can of chick peas throughout the day for sustenance...
I used to crave the attention that came with the skeletal grin, now i only wish for the feeling of gratification that came with it. I love the feeling of seemingly endless energy that i have now, i love looking down at my arms and seeing only the scars of past razors, scalpels and fresh bruises or tracks or cuts. They still bring tears to my eyes when i think of the things that i had to do to get them, but they are tears of strength. They are tears of memories past, the kind of tears that you get when you punch out a friend who deserved it.
What's the point of tonight's blog? At this point, i don't even know myself...
There's just a feeling of vacancy and inadequacy in my soul right now. The publishers are hounding me for the book's final edit...the restaurant is demanding my final draft of the revised menu, the government is craving my tazes and my teeth are begging for long overdue attention.
I feel like an irresponsible asshole...if and only because i realized that my alarm went off on my phone yesterday for a doctor's appointment that i ignored like an asshole. I fucking hate my blood being's far too reminiscent of all those times i had to mix my fluids with poisons in a 40cc..
from the tourniquet to the site of injection to the vision of my blood in a syringe to the fear of learning that i'm not well after all...
what do i do now? where do i go? i have no vices left...i have a heart of napalm encased in a ribcage of fear and regret...
i supppose it's a start?

Saturday, August 7, 2010

I put an angel out of her misery; we ain't got much, but we've got history.

For such a smart girl, some days i'm the dumbest bitch i know.

i've sat here for half an hour, half enthralled with my phone, yet trying to let the words consume me.

My heart moves faster than my fingers can type; but i censor.
i censoricensoricensor.

I have few friends who i would trust with my life-thyat's saying a lot because we all know that i have somewhat of an open door policy when it comes to

Friday, August 6, 2010

i'm afraid of the dark.

Opening night of a black and white movie, if my life was to play out on the silver screen.

Heavy red velvet curtains part, audience waiting in anticipation of the horror and beauty to come.
First scene, let's rewind my life 3 years and start the first frame with a party scene. Gaunt little doll of a girl, hair to the sky, too much makeup and chemicals in her to do anything but stand in place and feign pretention while she's secretly planning her escape route.

She floats in a sea of cheekbones, mascara, collar bones and black fitted corsets while the flashbulbs pop in her face and her friends pop pills into their mouths.

They smile, she smiles, but only with her mouth. Her eyes are vacant and glassy with dreams of being alone in bed, her dreams backlit by red lightbulbs and the darkest of shadows.


Fast forward to present day.
The sun is shining, the girl has the same untameable mane of hair, but she is naked faced and bicycling to destination nowhere. For the first time, she feels she is going *somewhere, instead of running from *something. She smiles with her eyes, with a purse full of books and bottled water and a heart pumping something between love and hate. They both keep her alive.

The love gives her something to live for. The hate fuels her soul in a way that feeds her creative drive, her passion for the dark side that exists in us all. It's externalized in every brush stroke of her paint brush, every line of her pencil, every word of her books. The past hatred has led her to this point, this wonderful level of appreciation of beauty both natural and contrived.

I used to cast a judgemental and spiteful gaze upon others back in the days of bones and lipstick. I thought less of girls (and guys alike) who seemingly put no effort into their appearance, the ones who were unassuming and didn't feel the need to cake on layers and layers of makeup to make themselves seem better or prettier. I didn't see the natural beauty for what it was because i was so fixated on creating the illusion of perfection through a careful application of lies and shallow trickery (some people call it foundation and mascara).
It's only now that i look upon these same people and wonder why they feel the need to hide who they are inherently as humans-no masks, no fakeness. Why can't they do without? Why hide who you really are; a natural beauty that shines brighter than any shade of eyeshadow.
It took me awhile to get to this level, i never believed the friends and lovers who told me that i looked better without all of that garbage on my face. I thought it was their way of trying to one-up themselves in a complimentary manner. We all have those people. The ones who will order salad, instead of the indulgent fries that you've ordered-dressing on the side, no less. The ones who will tell you with a conviction that they don't feel that you are, indeed the same size but gloat in the fact that they swim in your clothes. I thought it was a form of control that my lovers would exert on me, in a cheap attempt to make me appear less of a person to any male or female who may potentially look at me in a romantic light.

I wake up in the morning and still see some flaws, as we all do. But i feel a sense of pride, wonder, accomplishment when i can look at myself and not hate and loathe every inch of my being. I have lovely natural eyelashes, and beneath them, my eyes sparkle with a newly acquired livliness and depth. My skin has cleared from my system no longer being poisoned with a deadly cocktail of booze, cigarettes, powders and pills.

Maybe following Dr. Gillian McKeith's diet has helped, maybe it's the biking, walking, moksha and being surrounded by beautiful little children (who point out when i'm colouring outside of the lines-haha) that has made me feel a little more centered and in touch with who i am.

Last night i accomplished something i always thought was beyond my realm of possibility. I was at Komenda (skate park in Charleswood, built in memoriam of Michael Komenda) and i conquered my long standing fear of dropping down both banks into the bowl. For a girl who has longboarded for years but never really been a bowl skater, this is huge. The first bank was nothing, maybe a two foot slope. The second bank was so intimidating, standing alone but especially coming out of the first bank. It's about an 8 foot drop, which mellows out at the bottom. You gain huge speed out of it by itself, never mind coming out of the first one. I tackled them both independently, trying to get the balls to do both in succession of the other. The first few times i would screech to a grinding halt at the lip of the second drop; heart in my throat and stomach at my feet. Being the only girl at the park, i felt i had something to prove.

Our skate friends were watching me peer over the edge, chickening out every time. One guy who absolutely shreds offered me this wisdom:

"Yuri, you'll kill it. It's all in your head-you're psyching yourself out! You've done the first one, don't worry about the second. Just let it happen. Don't even think about it. Don't visualize yourself bailing, just picture yourself at the other end of the park coming out of it." After a few failed starts and stops (which i liken to the hesitation cuts on a slit wrist) i cranked up my music and started pushing off with my foot.

I made sure nobody was watching and i took that heartpounding leap into the abyss, i let my wheels carry me into uncharted waters....
and i landed it. Both feet still firmly planted, wind blowing my hair behind me. I rolled up the bank by the rail and felt like my heart was going to explode. The song playing in my headphones was "Let Go" by Frou Frou. It reminded me of watching Jeux D'enfants with my partner and feeling an overwhelming love and pride. I looked up and hoped that none of our skate buddies were watching, but they were. The first time I attempted, i made it. I fucking made it. We air high fived and i felt like i was on top of the world.

I told myself i wasn't calling it a night until i landed it 5 times. The first four were exhilerating and the fifth...i barely had time to correct my footing before the board slid out from underneath me and i bailed-concrete connecting with my head, hip and elbow all in one breathtaking blow. My board had gone on without me and i rolled up into a sitting position while all the cute little skater kids ran up to me, one of them holding my board and another offering me a hand up. So funny, cuz these little guys are maxing out at 15, 16 years old...and ripping up the bowl harder than i ever think i could. Maybe one day. Ha.

Anyways, i walked up the vert with the grip tape scraping up my already battered hands, devastated. I was so angry for myself for getting cocky and trying to go faster, harder, longer...

My two boys were waiting up at the lip of the bowl, flashstands and camera gear strewn all over. My lips went numb, my face drained of blood as the shock from the impact set in, and i started to cry. Yes, i hurt. It was more a matter of bruised pride, than bruised body. The little guy looked at me in awe and said in a solemn voice, "Yuri. Safety first!"

I laughed through my tears and said, "I KNOWWW! I just wanted to make it 5 times before we left."

So i sat down and resigned myself to a night of both accomplishment and failure, with hot tears running down my cold face. Then i looked at everyone else tearing it up and decided to give it another run. I knew that if i left the park on that note, the next time i came back i'd be too shitscared to try again. The fear would manifest and multiply exponentially until my head overanalyzed the drop and i'd never give it another chance. I wiped my goddamn tears and lifted my chin.
So i got back on the proverbial horse and cranked up The Preacher-Brother Ali. After the second bank rushed at me underneath my feet, i gritted my teeth, lowered my center of gravity and did it all over again. That first rush, that first fear, that first hope; it almost made me puke. I landed like a cat on it's feet...and again...and again and again until i made it 10 times.

I didn't quit. I didn't fucking give up, like i've given up on so much in the past. I proved myself, to the sk8ers and most importantly; to myself. My bruises and scrapes are worn like badges of honor, just like all of my past scars.

They brought me here, along with all of the harsh words, kind words, love and hate.

Today seems so bright and full of hope it's kind of ill.

I hope your day is just as lovely.

Hearts, kisses, bullets, pearls and hugs.


Thursday, July 29, 2010

i play with matches and paper dolls.

Some days life is like a book. You don't really want to turn the page and find out what happens next. Some days it's easier to relive past chapters and

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

lost little girl.

So many blogs i edit for content; putting a positive spin on my negativity so that i'm not just another hipster with a fake smile and sad insides with fake transparency...

that shit gets old.

"Lookatme lookatme lookatme with my flawlessly applied doll-like makeup, 80's inspired floral print skirt, sheer white shirt and fedora. Lookatme lookatme lookatme with my seeming indifference, achieved with a perfect cocktail of pilfered clonazepam, cocaine hangover and self deprecation.
i hate staring at shitty tattoos on the soft, paper thin flesh of inner biceps displaying single words or phrases in sad, failed attempts at originality.
Why am i writing this right now? why do i continue to berate that which i am probably secretly jealous of?


I wonder if the next girl's future will hold the same; a downward spiral of self loathing so severe it's almost beautiful in it's intensity. Show all your friends how you have this naive, unaware little girl wrapped around your little finger. hold her up high by your strings and make her dance. Pretend that you care about her sad failed attempts at sating you with candy and back rubs and her damndest at showing you her love, in the only way she knows how.

By being the submissive, obeying, pleasing "Yes" girl who would die for you, anything to prove that she is


I used to be that "Yes" girl who would sacrifice her own well-being, her own dignity at the cost of showing you that she would do anything for you. Now that i have no qualms about saying "no" or refusing to play little mind games, i feel that i should own it and feel stronger...but i don't. I still somtetimes feel like i'm falling perfectly into a trap, a game of boosting your self worth at the expense of others.
I would spend every last minute on this weird planet rubbing your back and tired soles if i knew that it would have made your life better.

I'll sit on the back burner, burning with a caustic resent for all those moments i lost while getting lost.

on another note, i discovered an old letter written to me in my journal by an amazing old (and recently re-kindled) friend.

Monday, July 12, 2010

i'm crazy. i own it.

The list of things i used to be is longer than the list of things i am;
ex-lover, ex-friend...
ex-communicated athiest, ex-patriot.

She's a latter day saint, but she's a Saturday sinner
Suicide-Sunday dessert
On weekends drinking your dinner.
The worry keeps her slender, the coffee keeps her awake.
Her man makes her happy but can't help to still the shake.

More than slack rope, more than sunstroke...rum soaked and sad jokes at rap shows.
Open doors that have been slammed shut, locked with the same key that i used to lock up my heart. Congratulations to the dry eyes, consolations to the nice guys.
Just another raffle prize, a cheap little thing wrapped up in a pretty bow.
Take me home.

Wake up and forget the past, every tear and failed attempt at saying the right things at the right time.
Move on, with a smile poorly drawn.

I'll always be silver medal, your unlucky raffle ticket that might win something; someday.
Auction off my heart, bids starting at the low low price of one broken ego.