My 19th Birthday - Scar included.

This post is kinda like a PSA warning of the dangers of taking friends out to get shitfaced during an emotional time in their lives.

Every year, millions of women in Canada become drunken hot messes. Known as the "", being a drunken hot mess can strike when you least expect it, although others around you can see it happening from a mile away. It can affect your friends, acquaintances, that chick that slept with your ex, and even you. All it takes is one too many drinks to get from this...



...to this.



Early detection is key to preventing this debilitating situation. If you feel like crying while drinking, DO NOT attempt to drink your sorrows away. Remember, early detection is key to preventing embarassing Facebook photo albums and bruises you don't remember recieving. This message is brought to you as a public service from crazywithasideofvanilla.

Now that you've been warned, let me speak of my own personal experience that led me to create this message. 

I Could Have been a Great Stalker

In High School, I was unapologetically weird. Not the I-wear-black-and-dream-about-blood weird, nor the staple-my-arm-for-fun weird (which we had at my school), but more the I-love-singing-Disney-in-the-hallways-and-want-to-be-a-bobblehead-doll-when-I-grow-up weird. In essense, I had no shame, a quality that hasn't changed. Luckily, I had a small group of friends that embraced my inner weirdness and who joined in.

Being in a graduate class of 64 in a K-12 school, everyone knew each other and many had even started daycare together (which makes boyfriend selection quite difficult, as you've most likely seen every single boy eat a worm at least once, a memory that doesn't incite attraction). Another effect from bring raised together was that we all seemed to turn slightly gay (gay as in "awesome!"). I don't know why, but everyone liked to hold hands and be more affectionate than what is socially accepted. Digression ended.

One of my many projects created out of sheer boredom at school was to create the creepiest stalker letters possible. To up the personal touch, the letters were composed of an acronym poem usign the target's name. They usually looked something like this.

S-T-E-P-H-A-N-I-E

Sometimes, I dream of what life would be like if everyone in the world but you and me died.
Then, I could watch you without anyone ever getting in my way
Everytime I see you, I just want to put you in a cage, so I can watch you all day.
Please keep your blinds up are at all times, so I can watch you when you sleep.
Have you noticed how I start heavy breathing when I think of you?
After I watch you shower, I record in my journal everything you did, and how it made me feel.
Never wash your sheets.
I smell them as soon as you leave the room.
Even though I have to go to class once in a while, I installed cameras in your room, so I never have to miss what you do.

LOVE FOREVER,
Your # 1 Fan,
Me

Clearly, I had amazing potential as a stalker.

I started out giving out the poems to my friends (it's how I show my love), but word spread about my talents. Were people creeped out? Was I shunned? Hell no! My school was full of freaks. I started getting commisions and special requests for stalker poems. I must have made at least 25 of these in one year.

...Yeah. That's it.
First person to comment gets their very own innappropriate stalker poem!

This is what Happens when I write Papers and Andrew gets Bored...

People with fear of feet close your eyes, cause it's about the get all PODOPHOBIALICIOUS UP IN HERE!

You've been warned.

So, the title says it all, and I'll let the pictures say the rest.

It all started with this.

Which then became this...

Woah, calm down, Abusive Toe!

This is as romantic at it gets with Andrew.

Yeah... There's nothing else to add...

Ear Infections and a Russian

I had a really great schoool experience growing up: I grew up with the same group of kids, I got to hate on Cow Eyes, learning was actually made fun by my teachers, life was great. Except for Grade 4. Fourth Grade was known as Hell Year. But just for me. That's because my teacher seemed to detest me with an absolute passion. She was the Uncle Vernon to my Harry Potter (cause I'm so the girl-version of Harry Potter. I would have totally caught that Snitch.)

Side note:

Oh my God, it's totally true!

Her name was Mme. Dora. And she was certainly not an Explorer, nor did she have a monkey friend (if she did, I feel like we would have connected). From day one, she seemed to have it out for me.

Does Dora usually have a boner?

This woman seemed to yell at me for any reason or non-reason she could think of. I could have been picking up someone's pencil from the floor and she would have accused me of stealing it. I could have been picking my own  nose and she would have charged me with attempting to spread a viral contagion. (Hey, anyone seen the movie Contagion? Is it any good?).

Every morning, we started out class with a reading period. After a while, I ran out of things to read (I'm the Rain Man of reading). She noticed right away. I said I had read all my books at home multiple times. She told me to read books from the class library. I told her I had already read them all. So she gave me the city paper to read every morning. What in the hell kind of fourth grader wants to read the daily paper? I sure didn't. So I just drew moustaches on the photos.

She yelled at me so much that it actually started a rumor with the younger kids. During all of my childhood, I was constantly dealing with bad ear infections, so I had tubes put in my ear pretty much every other year. 4th grade happened to be one of those years. My best friend Prince's little brother later told me that Mme. Dora yelled at a kid so loudly, that the kid had to have an ear operation. (That kid was me, in case you didn't get the connection).

Fourth grade appeared to get better when we got a new student. From RUSSIA. Her name was Alena Molorina and she was going to be my new best friend. Cause she was new and from RUSSIA, MAN!

Look! A Stereotype!

Like I've said before, I get what I want. And I wanted to be awesome buddies with Alena. So I did. We did everything together for a whole month. We'd run while all my other friends would try to follow (did I mention I was a bitch child?), we had inside jokes, and we worked on school projects side by side. One of our art projects involved drawing group pictures to put in a class calendar. Since I was born in October, I did that month and so did Alena.  I drew out this awesome haunted house, so everyone could decorate it. It was a masterpeice. There were frickin turrets, shattered windows, cobwebs, the whole works.

It probably looked like this. Cause I drew like Leonardo da Vinci when I was 9.

When we presented the drawing, Mme. Dora enthusiastically praised Alena's black cat silhouette. That's it. No more compliments to the rest of the group.
Next project was free-range (Like a happy chicken. Always buy eggs from free-range chickens. Anything coming from a happy ovary will be much better than from a stressed one.). I decided to make a little booklet out of red construction paper. On the front was a drawing of my dog at the time. On the inside was a poem about her. It was glorious.

Next thing you know, Alena makes THE EXACT SAME THING, but all about her cat and with blue construction paper.(See how badly I hold a grudge? It's pathetic.) Next thing you know, the teacher is showing it off in front of the whole class, saying how creative Alena was, blah blah blah. I know now that the teacher was probably just trying to make the little Russian fit in and feel comfortable, but alienating her by making looking like an Einstein probably wasn't the best way.

Cause that's what it did with me. I slowly grew to hate her. Partly from jealousy, partly from the unjustice the teacher dealt me. I wouldn't play with her anymore. I hid my art projects from her. I rolled my eyes at the sheer mention of her name. After half a semester, she ended up skipping like 2 grades. I guess she was an Einstein.

I never saw her again, but every once in a while, I wonder what happened to Alena.

Since she's Russian, she most likely looks like
 this now. Damn that Alena and her Russian genes.

From Brutal Bitch to Best Buds - Part 1

This is the story of Cow Eyes and I.

I call her this for obvious reasons, namely, her big ol' brown eyes. Also, it is not an insult (COWS HAVE BEAUTIFUL EYES DAMNIT!).

So, Cow Eyes and I have known each other since we were two years old, because we went to a small school that ran from daycare until 12th grade. Both our parents, being keeners, made sure to get us in before we even knew our alphabet. Actually, our parents were such keeners that we probably already knew our alphabet. Digression ended.

Anyways, as a kid, I was a giant brat. I attribute that to my only-child childhood (redundancy, yeah!). But basically, I always got my way, and I pretty much did whatever it took excluding violence. I was like a young Donald Trump, minus the billions and the bad haircut. It's not really the best comparison, but it's the only I can think of. Comment if you think of a better one. Damn, while can't I stay on topic?

So, back in kindergarden, Cow Eyes and I were in the same class. Our class not only had the regular "learning area", but also had added "stations", such as the arts & crafts area, the reading area, the building blocks area, etc. The Mother of all Holies, however, was the Make-Believe Area, with small-child-sized castle/house-thingy included. Seriously, that house was the shit. You could pretend you were a princess, a mom, or the pink Power Ranger (cause no one ever wanted to be the yellow one), you could spy on other kids picking their noses. When you were in the castle, THE WORLD WAS AT YOUR FINGERTIPS.

What is looked like to us:

What it probably looked like:

To avoid castle-overcrowding and any kind of mafia-type organization of kids and "neighbourhoods", where you have to pay for "protection" through the currency of jellybeans, the shit was organized. Every kid had a name card, and every play area had a certain amount of slots for name card. When the play time switch whistle (or bell or whatever it was) went off, everyone took out their name card from their current station and ran like a mothafucka to the one they wanted to go to next before all the slots were filled.

It is this system that began my hatred for Cow Eyes. One fine kindergarden day, I decided that I was getting the castle of awesomeness. No matter what. No matter what. I was at the art and crafts making a paper man with three cottonball bellies when the bell rang. I chucked that creepy art project and ran for it. There were three slots left. Two, One spot. In my peripheral, I could see sweet little Cow Eyes walking up to it and putting her name card in THE LAST SLOT.

Next thing I knew, big cry baby Cow Eyes was bawling, while everyone was accusing me of ripping out her name card and putting in my own. I vehemently denied doing anything. I was innocent. Looking back, I obviously put mine in her place, but back then, I wanted to go in the play house so badly that I was actually believing my own lie. While I was yelling that I got framed by Cow Eyes, my teacher picked me up and took me outside of the classroom. For the first time in my educational life, I was put in a time out. There was no justice in the world.

Hey, look! It's Nick Carter!

I was left outside of that classroom for hours. At first I cried for my sad sad life. But then, something changed. I realized that it wasn't my fault I was outside of class while everyone else was inside having fun. It was the fault of Cow Eyes. While I was living through Hell on earth, she was frolicking through the Castle of Awesome pretending to be stupid Cinderella or something. Cause who the hell picks to be Cinderella?!? Everyone knows Belle or Ariel are the bomb.

I then spent the entire time out glaring at Cow Eyes through the side window, planning her slow and painful downfall. This was war, and she didn't even know it.

-----------------------------

Note: I was probably in Time Out for about 6 minutes, but child-time is never the same as real-world-time.

Also, while looking for a picture of Damien from the movie The Omen, I found this tattoo of the kid instead. w. t. f.

Why Catholics are Crazy (Or, when Willpower bites you in the Butt)

Like a lot of people, I was born into a certain faith. Like a lot of people, I'm not actually practicing. As a French Catholic, I would be expected be really into holy relics, to avoid the Seven Deadly Sins (most of them being really fun and part of my day to day living) and completely against birth control (Ha!).

Though I don't go to church and only use my rosary as a good luck charm for when I had exams, there is one tradition that I just can't seem to shake: Lent. For all you non-Catholics out there, Lent is the six week period before Easter when Believers prepare themselves for Christ's resurrection. Although hardcore people will pray, fast, repent and abstain, etc., most go straight for the “Self-denial” part. That means giving up something for Lent, usually something you pretend is really important, so you look all pious, but in reality you don’t actually care about. Lots of people go for stuff like pop or chips, or Facebook between the hours of 3 and 6am.

I, every year, foolishly choose chocolate. I equate that to a crack head with a stolen stash being sent to Disney Land. Imagine the agony of sitting through “It’s a Small World After All” while going through withdrawal. Anyways, I digress.

Because of my choices, my yearly spring tradition is to be a total bitch.  But I actually make it through without touching any chocolate. Because of my tendency to go way over my own head, in 11^th grade I decided that hell, if I could do no chocolate, I could do no sugar. Now, looking back, I see I was a total idiot.

No sugar meant no fun cereals, no brown sugar in my oatmeal, no good granola bars, no juice, no desserts of any kind, nothing. The only sugary thing I allowed myself to eat was peanut butter, which I ate by the pound. This made me completely impossible to live with. To stop myself from punching people out of sheer frustration, I basically kept to myself and played a lot of Sims 2.

The crappiest thing about Lent every year is that most of my friends have their birthdays in that period of time. That meant I had to go to parties where everyone was drunk on cake and gummy bears while I was "enjoying" my pretzels and water. One of my friends had her birthday about four days before the end of Lent and had the best homemade cake ever (RAINBOW BITS ICING). In desperation, I begged her to pack me a piece for the end of my self-imprisonment.

Then, Easter morning came. I had actually, somehow, made it through without resorting to murder.

I woke up that morning at around 6 am and made a beeline for the kitchen. I ate that cake like I was in a hotdog eating contest. From there, I went to the cupboard and ate some fluffer nutter and nutella, which I washed down with sweet, sweet cranberry juice. In my choco-lust, I think I had also found some hidden Cadbury cream eggs and scarfed those down too. I was in heaven, I was feeling pure ecstasy, I was feeling... sick.

From the month and a half of no sugar, my body seemingly forgot how to process it. When it had to deal with about 7 pounds of the stuff all at once, it could only do one thing: prepare for attack.


But definitely not as cute.

  This is what I ended up looking like, but with a few differences:

1. Picture it as me, with no makeup and looking green in the face
2. I'm on the bedroom floor
3. Rocking back and forth.
4. Making strange high-pitch noises.
5. for about two hours.

I can't actually remember what happened afterwards, but it was a dark, dark time of my life.